I grew up on the beach. Almost every weekend of my childhood, my little sister and I would flit in and out of the sea, make sandcastles, eat lunch by the water, make more sandcastles, and come away covered in a concoction of ice cream and sand. As we grew older, our activities morphed into just one: lying in the sun for hours, trying to perfect that golden brown, sun kissed ‘look’. Never mind how much we tried to brush off the sticky sand when flipping our pancake selves over, we always left covered in a mixture of tanning oil and sand. That sand… it got on and under our skin for years.
I live in London now. It’s cold and wet. And cold. And wet. There are no beaches in sight, just grey buildings and great parks. I love parks, I do, but they’re only enjoyable when the weather Gods permit. Did I mention it’s cold and wet here? Anyway. Over the last few years, living in this city has helped me learn many important lessons — for instance, don’t underestimate seasonal affective disorder, it is very real. But also, hindsight is twenty/twenty: sticky sand, even two+ decades of it, really isn’t so bad.
