There is something about being on the beach with my dad that makes me revert to being about 8 years old. It´s silly enough in the mornings, when he comes to wake me and then watches me wonder around the flat, poking me and teasing me because he knows I´m to sleepy to react. This morning we went to the beach, again. After dragging beach furniture for a good while, we settled down to reading, marking compositions and lying around in the sun. Since being highly traumatised last year after being stung by a jellyfish, it´s a bit stressful to go swimming in the sea, but after wave jumping (mum got knocked over, clean off her feet, was very amusing), I swam and swam. And became 8 years old - splashing, pinching and pretending to be a stinging creature - swimming away from each other, races, races out of the sea, along the beach, races to the towel, trying to push each other into sea, and splashing with water bottles. And then dad peeled an orange and split it between us. I actually uttered the words Íf we had a bucket and spade, we could build a fort.´Dad heartily agreed. I am a child.