Sundays spent by the seaside. Collecting rocks and pretty shells. Digging sand. Chasing gulls. Flappy wings… not a fan. The air whips through our hair, blowing cobwebs away. The winter sun is low in the sky, sparkling on the waves. Nana comes – running with wide open arms. Poppa too. Walking, picnicking on the tartan rug. Egg sandwiches. Shoo birds. Go-way. Mumma has to leave early for a rescheduled appointment. How I would much rather stay with my boys, building castles by the sea.