So after a disastrous first week, everything suddenly switched like a stick on the tide turn.

All gadgets were set aside and we embarked on a two-person drive to be as Enid Blyton as possible. The tandem approach worked well, jollied along not a little by the sticky weather.

Beach. Burgers. Barbecues. Burning. And that was day one.
Rinse. Repeat.

Hunter will not put clean pants on of a morning. I throw them at him and say 'clean pants' in a clipped, dictator tone. He still doesn't. But he likes me sussing out that he still has stinky pants on.

He's heading for an expensive divorce.