The lady, Stella, invited us to take a tour around her little beach hut. Delighted to have the opportunity to see inside the hut, with its flaking pale purple exterior, we accepted. We walked up the concrete steps and over the threshold, strings of shells dangling in the doorway. The tour wasn’t long, the hut being tiny and all. A table, a kettle, a few knick knacks here and there. It was a hot day in Folkestone, but It felt blissfully cool inside the little concrete structure.
I met a Danish friend of mine who’s been living in London the last few years. Her grandma died recently. Her mum is gone too. And not long ago she received a telephone call from a storage facility in Denmark where she’d been keeping a lot of her personal belongings. There’d been a fire. Everything was gone.