I’m walking down the pier at Folkestone with Penny, towards the lighthouse. The sky is very grey, but it the light is quite glary. It is not too cold, but the wind is whipping round my face, making my hair stick to my lipstick. It then thrashes my hair onto my glasses, leaving thin streaks of lipstick across them interfering with my view. Penny is talking to me, telling me all about her previous adventure here with some of her uni friends. I am listening to her, but at the same time I am thinking about Ben as he is taking part in the Reading Half Marathon at this very moment. Is it dry in Reading, like here in Folkestone, or is it pouring with rain as was the forecast? Penny points out the railway track and back towards the derelict station – ‘Dad would really like to come down here and see all of this, wouldn’t he?’ she asks. We both know that, yes, he would. The seagulls wheel overhead, screaming into the wind. The sea is incredibly grey and the waves crash onto the pebble beach. We reach the end of the pier and turn to make our return journey.