OK, OK, I’m sorry, but I swear it’s not my fault. That is indeed the third line of the last song I heard. If you add the fourth line – Dat panis coelicus/figuris terminum – it means (roughly translated) Bread of heaven brings symbolism to an end. I know this because in my boarding school days, we used to sing it as an anthem – but we won’t go there, because even thinking about boarding school is enough to give me nightmares of despair and isolation.
Anyway…
That was what came wafting through my open door from the church hall down the road, where every Thursday the olds get together for a sing-along, and unbeknownst to them, bring me a lot of pleasure even though I don’t always go along with their song choices. Hello Dolly and Consider yourself at home don’t have quite the same pizzazz from a group whose average age is 70+, but what the hell? Good luck to them, I say.
Thursday morning at the church hall is play group: Twinkle twinkle little star, Incy Wincy Spider, and a good time is had by all except those having tantrums (and presumably their mothers).
The church hall is quiet today. All I can hear is the sea, and this suits me perfectly. The slice of sea I can see is churned up by white horses. Hope they get it out of their systems now, because white horses mean a nor’easter, and nor’easters in summer mean bluebottles (probably Portuguese Man o’ War to you).
And time’s up.
helen meikle's scribblefest 
I remember the blue bottles. Mean little things.
One of nature’s cruel jokes: sun, sand, rolling surf – and bluebottles