So, we sit. The Self family sit on the hotel balcony overlooking the sea. Each chair is positioned precisely to minimise eye contact with any other member of the family, but granting splendid views of each other’s (tanned) backs. What are we doing? Why, reading, naturally! An old French novel of epic confusion, The Time Traveler’s [sic] Wife, some Dan Brown, an issue of Nature and Finity. I’ll leave you to decide who was which, naturally.
Two French holiday-makers stroll past. Looking at us, one concludes to the other “well, they are English” in an obvious attempt to explain such eccentricity. Not, obviously, in English. But as it happens, it’s not so impossible to find non-English speaking English, and my parents happen to belong to such a niche. So there.
I felt like correcting them – “British, actually”. But I didn’t. The weather’s lovely, though.
(Apologies for the writing style, but we have honestly all been reading a lot.)