A swoop to the Hampton's thanks to a blag from an old bachelor school mate of hubs is being undertaken - there's idle talk that he dated Ivanka Trump but the flu blighted their path of true love - for a brief second I had imagined myself at the nuptials, the wedding of the season, rubbing shoulders with NY societies best, but the truth is my bachelor mate is a commitment phobe & not even Ivanka with a fair wind could snag him.
I had imagined myself billeted in a Calvin Klein lookalike house right on the ocean front a la Jack Nicholson & Diane Keaton in 'As good as it gets" - sadly our bachelor buddy is not into salt water and last years trip was spent in a rental on the wrong side of the tracks - but thankfully with the luxury of a pool & a tennis court - yay!
That time we hit the beach mid mornings and deposited ourselves in a nice big space not far from the breaking waves, but close enough to the lifeguard to feel comfy about our hoard of kids playing in the waves. Before long we began to notice that we had many new friends around us - then it dawned on us that there is a complete lack of appreciation of personal space on a USA beach.
At home the odd crazed person might tote an umbrella and at best a deckchair for an aged Aunt down to the sand, but here its all about the amount of equipment you bring on to the beach and, it seems, how close you can rock up to your neighbour without actually sitting on their lap.
Just when you thought you had set up a safe distance from your neighbour to enable your shouty 4 year old to fling sand around without the embarrassment of chucking it over another beach goer - lo & behold a family sidles right on up within an inch of your comfort zone and sets up camp.
This country is huge, its beaches vast - it makes you want to yell those illicit words "but I was here first!". The only way to deal is to throw yourself back to those halcyon days on the beach at Barry Island and once more feel at home with the proximity of your fellow bathers.
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