Sand, sand and more sand. I love the beach but would love it more if it stayed where it is supposed to be, which is picturesquely on the actual beach and not in my kindle, ears and sheets. Small children are magnets for sand and even after a thorough rinsing, seemingly retain it by the handful, cleverly stashed somewhere on their little person, only leaving them when they climb into bed with you where the magnetic property disappears and you’re left to exfoliate while you sleep. I woke up yesterday, thoroughly encrusted, my night cream having acted like glue. It made for a spectacularly romantic moment with my husband, who made a small “eep” of fear when he opened his eyes to my gloriously glamorous self, salt-encrusted hair reaching for the sky and aforementioned skin covered with sand looking like I’ve half-turned into a crocodile.
There is something quite enjoyable about still being able to startle a long standing partner. Sure, it’s not the romantic, “I love you so much I want to consume you (in a non-Hannibal Lector sort of way)” but not many couples I know still have that. Strangely enough, the ones that did are largely divorced now and fighting over custody of the soup tureen. Fear and laughter can make a glue that, like sand in the bed and night cream, may not be particularly comfortable, but can still hold a relationship together.