Flora Watkins

‘Ah,’ says my husband at the top of the cliff path at Overstrand, ‘it’s just like a Shirley Hughes illustration.’ There are sandcastles, wooden groynes, children and dogs running in and out of the waves. Then his eye falls on the first land grab of the day. Three generations of the same family are hard at work constructing their citadel: popping up polyester tents to form a wide arc, shovelling shingle into the flaps to secure them, unfurling windbreaks across either end to mark the outer limits of their encampment. We – like the family in a favourite Hughes picture book from my childhood, Lucy and Tom at the Seaside (1976) – have travelled with just ‘the picnic things and bathing bags and buckets and spades’.

What are the unexpected benefits to have come out of Covid? Letterbox cocktails? An irrefutable excuse for you to bail on a social occasion? An end to gouty Great-Uncle Matthew lunging for a slobbery kiss at Christmas? Like a booster shot, most of these will wear off over time, so we should make the most of them. Similarly, a recent trip to the National Gallery prompted a flurry of bookings as soon as we got home. For the first time, it was possible to appreciate favourite paintings unencumbered by a sea of iPads held aloft by un-seeing tourists. 'Just buy a postcard in the shop!' snapped no-one at all. It was bliss. Peaceful. Civilised. Of course, this isn’t sustainable.

'Have you got any advice?' my friend calls to ask, ahead of going to pick up their pandemic puppy. 'Well, um, as first-time dog owners, I’d say steer clear of spaniels and poodles… but it’s a bit late for that, ha!' 'Ha,' she says, thinking I’m joking and off they go to fetch their cute, Disneyfied cockapoo. What could possibly go wrong? He’s a small dog — they were very clear that they needed a small dog to fit in with their family— he’s friendly, he’s a hypoallergenic little ball of floof. He even looks like a child’s teddy bear. A year on and Harvey the cockapoo is neither small nor cuddly, towering over both his spaniel and poodle parent.

Back in the summer of 2015 as I awaited the birth of my second son, when people asked me about my burgeoning bump — as they are wont to do of heavily-pregnant women — I kept receiving the same, curious response. ‘Oh you haven’t timed that well,’ random strangers would say. ‘August babies don’t do so well at school — and they never become Premiership footballers.’ As I smiled politely and thanked them for their unsolicited advice, I thought again and again, ‘What right-thinking mother would want their son to be a Premiership footballer?’ The sleaze, the moral corruption, the obscene salaries and conspicuous consumption.

‘Freezing winter gave way to frosty spring, which in turn merged to chilly summer,’ was how Jessica Mitford recalled her Cotswolds childhood in her memoir, Hons and Rebels. Our inclement climes have rarely been as hard to bear as they have this year, with the unusually cold, grey spring — coupled with the prospect of another staycation — severely dampening spirits that were already low. However optimistic the Met Office might be, we can never rely on a ‘barbecue summer’ in this country. So when weathering another rainy bank holiday or a soggy half-term in a damp cottage, try the literary equivalent of dressing for the job you want, not the one you have. But be warned: golden summers rarely make for happy endings.

After 14 months of subsisting in loungewear, with a social life largely provided by Netflix box sets and Deliveroo, many would gladly attend the opening of an envelope in order to get out of the house. Thanks to the vagaries of British weather, ‘dressing up’ has hitherto meant extra layers and grabbing the blanket off the end of the bed to go and sit outside the pub for a couple of hours. But from Monday 17 May we can drink and dine and dance indoors once more in fabulous destinations for which we’ll definitely need to slough off the jeans… The Candlelight Club We keep being told that the post-Covid world will give way to a new Roaring 20s.

Pity the poor panoramic restaurant. They might boast the best views of the capital, but the lack of outdoor space on the 42nd floor means they haven’t been able to take advantage of the easing of restrictions for the hospitality industry — until now. But from 17 May, they’ll be sashaying out of lockdown like the sequin-clad Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.  With gala dinners, champagne cocktails and complimentary magnums of Moet to tempt you back, here’s where to go. Searcy’s at The Gherkin London’s original sky-high dining room on levels 39 and 40 of The Gherkin (30 St Mary Axe, EC3) is welcoming guests back with a series of five-course gala dinners during their opening week.

According to the Yale sociologist, Professor Nicholas Christakis, we are on the verge of a second Roaring Twenties. Just as the 1918 flu pandemic ushered in an era of excess, so too will Covid, as people 'relentlessly seek out social interactions'. This could take the form, he believes, of lavish spending and 'sexual licentiousness'. Or at the very least, changing out of the bottom half of our pyjamas.  Under the next relaxation of lockdown restrictions on 16 May, groups of six will be able to meet indoors — prompting many a wag to tweet that they’ll need to start finding excuses to stay in again. After more than a year without normal social interaction, in which so much has changed, having friends over is fraught with difficulties.

Even before the news of the death of the Duke of Edinburgh was announced, Buckingham Palace had had to suspend ticket sales for visiting its gardens this summer, due to overwhelming demand. With the annual summer opening of the State rooms cancelled for the second year running due to the pandemic, the opportunity to picnic in the grounds of the Queen’s London home has proved irresistible. Even the US networks have carried the story. Tickets, at the time of writing, were not available. But don’t despair.

The game is afoot! Yes, yet again! Hot on the hob-nailed heels of Enola Holmes, the Netflix film about the great detective’s younger sister, comes yet another spin on Sherlock. This time the streaming service brings us The Irregulars, a gaggle of Victorian urchins hired by Dr Watson to investigate crimes with a supernatural element. Elementary, you might say. Though I won’t, because it’s so tired and clichéd. And this convoluted Conan Doyle cash-in isn’t just jumping the shark — the producers of The Irregulars are so far gone, they’ve cleared the wall of the orcas’ tank and have beached themselves in the carpark. ‘Whatever is it like in your funny little brains?’, as Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock said.

If I could pinpoint the the moment last March when I could no longer pretend that lockdown wasn’t coming, it was the phone call from my favourite neighbourhood restaurant cancelling our Mother’s Day booking. The rising terror I felt was akin to the bit in The Handmaid’s Tale, just after women’s bank accounts have been frozen, but before the summary executions begin. Instead of drinking blood orange Bellinis, I’d be cooking the usual Sunday lunch, with possibly a bit of grudging help loading the dishwasher, before embarking on half a year of home school hell. Restaurants and foodie businesses have been busy reinventing themselves for the Covid era ever since then.

When my early efforts at homeschooling faltered amidst bitter recriminations and shouts of 'You are literally the worst teacher in the world!' (from a six year-old), my husband stepped up. Rubbing his hands, he declared, 'This is going to be just like Dead Poets Society'. Yet cries of 'O Captain! My Captain!' were not forthcoming. Within five minutes came the sound of doors slamming and roars of 'Will you SIT DOWN and SHUT UP!' We aren’t meant to teach our own children and attempting anything alongside that other business of trying to earn a living is farcical. But however badly you’re faring, one look at this lot should reassure that you’re doing just fine.

Just a few minutes into watching the latest Netflix sensation Lupin — its biggest-ever French show — and I was giving some serious Gallic shrugs. It’s hugely popular: it has been no. 1 in the US and was the first French series to break into their top 10. Elsewhere, Lupin is vying for Bridgerton for the number one streaming spot. Inspired by Maurice Leblanc’s stories about the gentleman thief, Arsène Lupin, the show’s success has prompted fresh print runs of the books, first published in 1905. (Some had sold out on Amazon when I checked last week but have now been restocked.) But watching the show is a strangely dislocating and downright weird experience.

It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to remake a film that is already considered a peerless masterpiece. Netflix was roundly trashed for attempting it with Rebecca. 'Superficial and slapdash' was the New Yorker’s verdict (one of the kinder ones): 'somewhere between a lukewarm retread of Hitchcock’s original and a glossy Instagram feed'. As for the BBC’s Christmas three-part adaptation of Black Narcissus, not even Diana Rigg in her final role could save it from coruscating comparisons with the 1947 Powell and Pressburger film.  This year will see remakes, prequels and sequels of Top Gun, Cinderella and 101 Dalmations to name but three.

This February 14th might be the one night of Lockdown 3.0 when it’s no hardship to have to stay at home. Who really wants to go to a restaurant on Valentine’s Day, full of couples who never usually speak to one other? The food is invariably as naff as a Forever Friends foil balloon; everything comes drizzled with pink coulis and at some point you’ll be offered a single red rose for your beloved which has been flown half-way round the world, stiffened with chemicals and devoid of scent. But nor should you think of cooking — bar a bit of finishing off here and there. So don’t say it with flowers, say it with one of these divinely decadent food deliveries.  My bloody Valentine Hawksmoor At Home have surpassed themselves with their Valentine’s box.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a British actor in possession of a hit series and a face that hasn’t been thrashed by the ugly stick will, at some point, be mooted as the next Bond. So it’s surprising that it took Ladbrokes almost a fortnight after the period drama Bridgerton dropped on Netflix on Christmas Day to slash the odds on its star, Regé-Jean Page, becoming 007. For anyone still uninitiated, Bridgerton is the love child of Jane Austen and Jilly Cooper. It’s a Regency romp for those who feel that Georgette Heyer would be improved by more action on the library ladder.