The Heat of my Shame

The tiny fishing village of Beer, Devon.

It's hot as Africa this afternoon walking for a little way along the South West Coastal Path at Beer - the grass dry brown in places and my feet getting all dusty in my fitflops.

My husband checks his watch and we turn back after our agreed ten minutes there and ten minutes back walk.

He buys us locally-made ice creams - strawberry and stem ginger - from a kiosk on the sea front. When he says something shockingly inappropriate to the young girl serving us, I want to die of shame.

I know it's the disease....not his fault....don't want to upset him....I explain why it's not good, trying not to be tight-lipped and shouty.....don't think he'll remember though....so I talk about something else....put Fidelio into the CD player in the car and we sing along to Beethoven's glorious music, with the windows wound down, and all of summer blowing onto our faces....cooling the heat of my shame.