I won’t be here next Sunday, so I’m posting this in advance. The most annoying thing in July is – drumroll… – sand. Yeah, you read it right. Sand.
No, not this type. Not at all. I love sand dunes. There is something hugely pleasurable and also humbling to be able to see huge expanses of the stuff, just begging to be stroked, sifted through fingers, laid on.
No, what I mean is the sort that wriggles into your clothes, sticks between your toes and insinuates itself in your sandwiches. The sort of sand that clogs up the breathing holes in your shoes and harbours unpleasant surprises right beneath its deceivingly innocent surface. The sand that believes its primary role is to be crunched between teeth, breathed in and most off all distort your vision by causing you to rub your eyes until you cry hot tears of pain and despair. The sort that turns a perfectly good-spirited family outing to the beach into ‘why the Hell are we putting ourselves through this torture?’ grouching match on the way home. The sort of sand that feels best as it’s stripped from your body by a particularly vigorous jet of water as you stand smiling in the shower pitying the ones on the outside who are fighting their itches as they ill-humouredly wait for their turn.
Now that sort of sand is BANNED!
Have a nice trip to the beach, won’t you?