‘I’ll remember that.’

Helga tries to guess at Claire’s background. She must be married. Only an unappreciative man could grind down a woman’s self-confidence in the way that Claire’s obviously is. She’s a mother too. She can tell by the stickers on the top of the Tupperware boxes. Helga bets her kids don’t appreciate her either. Were they supposed to be coming with her to the beach? Is that why she’s got all this delicious food? But Helga is impressed by Claire and likes her Irish charm. Anyone who is willing to get in the sea at sunset on the last day of December always goes up in her estimation.

From the side pocket of her old oilskin jacket, she gets out her notebook to write down Claire’s number. She likes her phone and the camera on it, but she has a cheap contract that tethers her to the Wi-Fi in her cottage and so she uses her trusted notebook for numbers and lists and drawings, as she has done her whole life. A pen and paper are invariably the only things that work at sea. She can never get why people become so obsessed with modern tech. It always lets you down. One day, the internet is bound to crash and Helga can’t help thinking what a good thing that will be for humanity. Everyone was much happier before all these apps and games and the constant ‘look at me’ jumping up and down, which Helga can’t bear. She refuses to have any social media, much to Mette’s annoyance.

She turns to the page where she did a quick sketch of the great tit on the bird box earlier, with its stripy wings and white cheeks. She’s chosen her ancient yellow jumper today to match his impressive chest.

But Claire is just saying her number for her to write down, when a small, curly brown dog comes bounding across the pebbles and jumps onto Helga’s lap, spilling her tea. Then it scurries around the others, its snout in the box of mince pies. Claire makes a grab for them.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the dog’s owner apologises. She’s wrapped up in a designer windcheater and a fur hat. There’s something very put together about her. She has that pinched look of a woman who’s had work done to her face, which is pale, the flawlessness of her forehead only serving to accentuate the lines around her eyes. Why do women do that to themselves? Helga thinks. It must be the biggest con ever invented, mostly because the result is so contrary to the intention. This woman might as well be carrying a neon sign above her head saying ‘insecure’, not that she realises it. Helga’s sick of everyone being so against ageing. What’s not to love about the sweet spot of maturity when you don’t give a shit about what anyone else thinks?

‘Can you try and control your dog?’ Helga tries to lift her mince pie away from the jumping, yapping hound. She’s not a dog lover. She doesn’t like the way they chase the birds.