‘Do you still want to try that photo shoot on the beach tomorrow morning? I’ve just checked the weather, and it’s looking good.’

Tilly and I were scanning the list of planned blog posts we’d compiled for the next few weeks. These were flexible to a degree, which allowed us to comment on any hot, relevant topic that came up, but planning was an essential part of running the blog. It didn’t tally too well with the glamorous ideas that some people had of what I did for a living, but it was most definitely a necessary part. Like a lot of jobs that people only saw a small part of, there was a much bigger, far more mundane part to it.

‘Ideally.’ I nodded as I scanned my calendar. ‘So long as you don’t mind coming over early? I can get everything ready and packed in the car so that we can just go straight there and hopefully catch some good light, as well as beating the crowds.’

‘Fine with me. I think it’ll be fun! We’ve always stayed around the marina for pictures before, so I think it’s good to try and incorporate some more of Brighton into the shoots. And who doesn’t like the beach?’

‘Great. Thanks, Tilly. Hopefully it’ll all go well. With a bit of luck, we might even find we’re naturals at this whole “on location photo shoot” thing.’

We most definitely weren’t naturals. I heard the wave first. And then I saw it. Briefly. Very briefly. It was, in fact, just long enough for me to open my mouth, ostensibly to make some sort of noise signifying surprise, but in actuality it just ensured that I swallowed what felt like a third of the English Channel before the force of the water overtook me and unceremoniously washed me up onto the beach like some bit of old shipwreck detritus. Opening my mouth had definitely been a bad move.

‘Libby!’ Tilly’s panicked voice came to me through the gurgly water sounds now filling my ears.

Spitting out seawater and goodness knew what else, I quickly stood, the shock of the cold water propelling me to move. Pushing my hair back from my face, I made to step forward, inelegantly wobbling on the uneven pebbles. The next wave crashed into the back of my legs and, unbalanced, I took another tumble. Thinking that a gradual ascent to standing might be more successful, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. From the corner of my eye I saw a nearby windsurfer, out for an early morning sail, fall head first off his board. At least I wasn’t the only one taking an unexpected dip. Although admittedly, he was more suitably dressed for the water than I was. The pebbles of Brighton beach dug into my knees and I made ouchy noises as I got myself fully upright once more.