Arbitrarily



Little Granddaughter gives instruction as to where one may hide. In the launderette it is a wedge of space between the supersize tumble dryer and the oddly angled wall. This will be the last place to be searched. It will be her turn, then: she will hide exactly there and it will be the last place to look.
In the dryer towels steam, and t-shirts and a stream of clothes, and the twenty pences and the pound coins drop in, till all the washing is dry.
Yesterday on the beach the wind blew wave spume and rain so we headed back towards the car and arrived patched in damp so we changed our clothes and bought an ice cream.
'I like a beach,' the flutey voice says, cuddled in with Teddy, a fine vanilla cone, a purple plaid blanket. 'I don't like a sea.'
'Why not?'
'It's crying.'
Between wipes across the windscreen the scene is clear: heavy clouded sky, unstill waters, the wave spray leaping, catching low light.
'It's crying?'
She nods and squints and eats her sweet ice cream.




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