Beach combing is what I do...

A ‘gentle’ ten mile stroll took us to Folkestone on Saturday.

Four miles there as rain demanded we hop on a bus(?)and six back. Fortified with a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine, we wandered along the Harbour Arm taking in the live band and happy crowds enjoying the shy sun!

Walking back across the broadwalk on the beach I spied a rusty object.  My magpie genes were flexed as I bent to pick it up.  It weighed a ton!  A mere bagatelle like weight wasn’t going to put off a hardened beachcomber like me.  What I hadn’t bargained for was, already my pockets were full of rather large stones.  Off we set with a spring in our step. Boy, was the flaming thing heavy, getting heaV-I-E-R with every ruddy step.  Himself offered to carry it, however his knees aren’t in the full flush of youth... I declined with the words...

‘It’s my bright idea to pick it 
up, let me be responsible for the carrying it home!’

I put it over my right shoulder leaving my left hand free to transport a 99 ice cream down my chops as we promenaded home.

Well, a girl needs sustenance in order to power home!?!

With each mile my mind glorified this most (well to some?) interesting of objects.  The key that turned the points to direct the very last train down the harbour for the passengers to step off the train and onto the ferry.

Now in my imaginings it would have been in the last century but no himself informs me that it was the 12th April 2008.

And I’ve carted the blooming thing all the way home...

Why, oh why can’t I be pale and interesting, instead strong and purposeful just like a puffed up socking great seagull strutting along the prom?