173. A breath of fresh air

And I'm not even being metaphorical. No. For once in my smart-arsey word-driven life I am being LITERAL.

Drove to the beach on Friday evening (or rather, Herself drove) after a tiring week and an unusually busy and tiring fortnight. Stepped out onto the deck just as the sun was dipping towards the horizon, and took a deep breath. Pure deliciousness. Quite literally, a breath of fresh air.

That one lungful was just the beginning. By the time we got back to London at 7.30 on Sunday evening I was feeling all fresh and bouncy again. Not like a permanently enraged, germ-ridden commuter. Not like an ancient old crone with a reasonably demanding new job. Not like a slightly neglectful, distracted girlfriend/friend/daughter/sister.

Fresh, I tell you. With added bouncy.

So the old adage is true, it turns out. There is nothing like a breath of fresh air.

(Thanks also to: Herself, the Hound, 10 hours sleep on two consecutive nights, homemade cheeseburgers, a bacon and egg bagel, a slow walk on the seashore, Blue Valentine, sunshine and a brisk nor'easterly, Angry Birds Rio – and last, but not least, an afternoon screening of The American President.)