Mirosława approaches, smiling, and takes a picture. ‘This part is a natural pool,’ she says, tracing a rectangle marked out by poles. ‘When the tide goes out it stays full of water. It really sparkles in the sunlight. Normally it’s full of kids. Full of water wings and lilos.’ She sighs. ‘This area is always busy. You have to come early to get a good spot.’

We turn towards some noise and see Jessica and the latecomers, crunching down the beach towards us. The Chinese woman from Monday Rhyme Time and two families I haven’t seen before.

‘It’s nearly twelve o’clock,’ calls Jessica. ‘I think we should eat our packed lunches before it rains.’

Mirosława nods and goes to help her with the picnic blanket. As they spread it, it whips up above their heads like a parachute. Jessica weights down one corner with stones but the wind blows them back in her face. Eventually they get all the corners and the middle ballasted with bags. Just then the first drops of rain start to fall, big and splashy. Katie and I stay put. The water’s icy on my ankle bones. Ayo’s mum determinedly paces the beach, oxygen bottle on her back, following Ayo as he crawls in front of her on the leash of his tube, trying to put stones in his mouth. The babies in their hooded waterproofs and wellies stagger over the shingle picking at seaweed, like so many tiny hazardous waste operatives. As the rain gets steadier, Jessica and Mirosława pull up the blanket and pack up, gesturing that they’re going to the shelter.

The Rhyme Time woman speaks in Mandarin and Nancy laughs as she replies, then turns to me.

‘I think we’re gonna head into the town and get chips there. You coming?’

I shake my head. ‘Don’t think so. We’ve got our lunch.’

As the rain starts to power down on us we all struggle back into our shoes. Sushmila’s mum wrings out her trousers. From further up the beach we see all the nursery children in their little tabards and shorts, rushing along with their buckets and spades and fishing nets on sticks, herded by bad-tempered teaching assistants. Our group’s staked out the shelter, so I don’t know where they’ll go.

Some of the families have already found the drinks shack. The white woman I know from the park sits ensconced on the bench, hands wrapped round a hot coffee. Bet she’d like a fag to go with it but she won’t light up in front of Mirosława. I grimace in sympathy.

The air is damp in the shelter. The bench is slightly damp too, so I spread out my sling to sit on. Soon we’re all crowded in. The Chinese contingent has sloped off to find town, chips and tea, steaming up the hill with their buggies, rain covers on.