I was looking through all the photos I’ve accumulated over the last few weeks (months, really) and before I become even more helplessly buried under this avalanche, I shall begin posting them in increments, out of order, which is how memory works sometimes anyway. Lots of things have happened recently, but let me rewind back to a day in August in which England was sunny; in which Daniella and I actually woke up on time and made our way to a beach in Kent; in which all we did was talk and bask and swim and eat.

It was a nice discovery that there are beaches that are just about an hour away from London by train. They do not hold a candle to the beaches in the Philippines (and, I’m sure, to the ones in Greece where Dani grew up), but it was nice to be by saltwater in the sun.

If you told me a year ago that I would be somewhere in the North Sea, floating in the water like a starfish, eating gelato and calamari, drinking semi-warm tequila-laced beer and G&Ts, I probably wouldn’t have believed it.

Probably.

Back in London, we ate breakfast for supper behind a really nice, really earnest (read: emo) installation by Tracey Emin, who turns out is a Tory, which makes me feel a little sad, which I guess is fitting, considering how her work makes me feel.

On the way home, I read a bit of Lavinia Greenlaw’s “The Importance of Music to Girls,” which I still haven’t finished, but — and I could be wrong — I feel like there’s still a bit of time.