The weather was glorious, too fine for the noble family Harrod’s of Essex not to have day out in Walton on the Naze.
I did send Richard a mental invitation to join us (almost burst a capillary doing it too) but he must have missed it because he didn’t RSVP.
Shame.
I had a very much hoped to see him frolicking beneath the pier in a pair of grape smugglers. Actually, I think grape smugglers offer a little bit too much sunshine, if you get my meaning. Let’s just say swimming shorts, low slung and clinging. Mmm…clinging.
“Never mind Love,” my beloved consoles, “I will craft you a Richard Armitage, like some kind of male Galatea from this abundant gift of sand.”
So while the kids danced among the waves, and I sprinted away from a sugar seeking wasp with world record holding athleticism, my Pygmalion sculpted.
Oh mon cher, I do believe your talents are quite wasted…er, what’s that?
“That’s your published book my love.” He answers solemnly. “Look, Richard Armitage can go to your book signing!”
…Now I know you’re just fucking with me!
Pretty witty Nell 