I was supposed to fly to Istanbul last weekend. However, the volcano known as flveobshbdibd, or whatever it’s called, decided to throw its toys out the pram. So instead we made late minute holiday plans and decided on St Ives in Cornwall.
I’m pleased we did. It’s stunning. Culture and the seaside is a heady mix and it’s easy to see why Barbara Hepworth, Patrick Heron and the like flocked here in the 50s. Once a fishing village then a Mecca for artists, it’s now a tourist destination with its own Tate gallery. We were lucky with weather, there were few families as it was just after Easter and there wasn’t a single plane in the sky.
Although I’m not: a, over sixty; b, rich; or c, a dodgy artist churning out water colours for tourists (I would do this if I could) – I still want to live in St Ives. I plan to work in a shop -which doesn’t exist yet but will one day – called the teapot explodes. It will sell stuff. By night I will write books and play the ukulele. It will be a good life.