"I've not been blogging recently," I said to Mr Coffee. "Why am I not blogging?"
Mr Coffee regarded me, hunched over the sewing machine, and resisted the temptation to snort with laughter at my lack of self-awareness. (It's a new sewing machine! A Janone XL601, which is very exciting indeed. I bought it after my lovely old Singer, bought second-hand for me when I was 15, started snapping needles constantly and firing them at my eyes. "It's turning into a ****ing weapon." said Mr C, before sternly packing me off to the sewing machine shop.)
Anyhow, it's been a while. So the least I can do is to take you out for ice-cream.
This is an iced drink. Or a Coke Float, depending on your upbringing. It is a scoop of ice-cream, sunk into a glass of cola. It is a completely unreconstructed seaside treat, as subtle as a plastic bucket and spade or a saucy postcard. It is also incredibly synergetic; the cola doing something frothy, delicious and, frankly, quite visually alarming to the ice-cream.
And this is Brucciani's ice-cream shop in Morecambe, with its beautiful original art-deco fittings with etched mirrors and windows. Like the drink, the place is utterly unreconstructed. You won't find it online, except as part of a holidaymaker's Flickr stream.
Later that day, I dyed Eldest's hair purple for the summer, assured by the blurb on the packet that it would wash out before September. (Judging by the shade, this may result in regret and frantic shampooings during the last week of August.)
And so it was summer. Look forward to more (retouched) memories soon.