Sticks and Stones…

I have two different paces of walking – dead slow and dead quick. I go slow when I walk straight from the house, because I know where I’m going, or when I go near the canal because I know that the journey doesn’t last long.  If Mum or Dad lost me, or I lost them, I reckon I could find my own way home – I’ve looked out of the window often enough to know which way to go.

This week  I went quick though as we went a long way away to a place called Suffolk. This was exciting because I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been there before. Dad said it was virgin territory, and I think I understood.

We stayed in  a lovely pub which was a stone’s throw away from the beach, which was funny really as the beach was full of lots of stones to throw.  It wasn’t the sandy beach that I was used to, but it was just as much fun.

I didn’t count, but I think I beat the most number of times I’ve run into the sea to fetch a stick in one week.  There weren’t many sticks around so when he found a good one, Dad kept it in his ruck sack. We kept it for two days, then he threw it too far and I think it probably ended up in Holland.

The sun shone all the time we were there, which made all the playing thirsty work. We bought a new drinking bottle on our trip and they kept disappearing into toilets to fill it up – from the tap I think.

There’s nothing like a bit of exercise to build up an appetite, and Mum was on hand to reward my good behaviour with some Cheesy Hearts.  Dad watched a programme on telly that  said he had to cut down on the amount of meat he eats, so I thought I would show him how it’s done.

Looking at what he was tucking away at breakfast, dinner and tea, I don’t think he has started yet….