A trestle table was being carried across the sand from the rocks by a couple of fathers. An efficient off-duty gym teacher in a tracksuit and with a whistle round her neck carried her precious cargo to it: ribbons and medals and a few silver cups in a large plastic crate. Belinda scurried into position behind the table. She busied herself arranging all the medals in a row, whilst Hugo asked the children to very kindly come and sit before it — he and his mother really were Sergeant Wilson and Captain Mainwaring — which they dutifully did. They lined up in their school classes, cross-legged and chattering excitedly. Babs pottered across in her wedged espadrilles and had a word in the ear of one of the fathers she knew. He nodded and looked rather pleased. Then he went across to the table of goodies to relay the information. There was a moment's excited discussion between the teacher and Belinda, and then the latter scurried across to her son. She took the foghorn from Hugo.

"Ladies and gentlemen and children," she announced in her best cut-glass accent with exaggerated vowels. "I've jarst been informed that the local BBC news crew are here to film the prize-giving. So I hope you'll all understand if we delay for a few minutes, until they arrive vair shortly."

An excited buzz went round the crowd. Belinda seemed to glow and expand in her regal magnificence. She beamed benevolently at the assembled throng. Babs sauntered back to us, smiling.

"What are you up to, you witch?" Iris asked dryly.

Babs widened her eyes innocently. “Shona's here, didn't you know? She's covering the prize-giving for Look South."

“She's here?" I asked, astonished. "Where?"

"Round by the Sailing Club, apparently. With a film crew."

"And which prize-giving, pray, is she covering?" asked Iris sarcastically. Belinda, having retrieved her handbag from behind a rock, was busy powdering her nose in her compact mirror. She teased her hair into even loftier waves, applying lipstick now, glancing about expectantly. The children, bored by this time, rolled around in the sand and played, or pinched one another, the teacher struggling to keep order.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly say," grinned Babs. She sashayed off, bottom wiggling, towards the path up the cliff.

“The sailing, obviously,” said Iris grimly. “I’ll go and tell Hugo.”