We assumed it was a film, to begin with.   Then when we looked round for the cameras we couldn’t see anyone other than some doting ginger-haired dick with buck teeth and stripy too-tight trunks focussing on some ghastly child, who was obviously embarrassed to be seen as his daughter even at the age of three.

So, no film.  And by the time we’d come to that momentous conclusion (blame the cuba libras we’d drunk at lunchtime – turn and turn about our rounds and then these boys who seemed to think that we’d be up for it if they coughed up - fat chance!) he’d stopped crawling and lain down, with his eyes closed.

‘Don’t look like he’s sleeping ...’ Vicky was watching him too.

‘Nah ... D’you think he’s OK ... not ... I dunno...’

She was thinking same as me, and less embarrassed about saying it.  ‘Well he’s hardly likely to have just jumped off a slave ship and swum ashore is he?   He’s not even wet!’

‘Dressed like that he’s come from somewhere hot though, hasn’t he?   Must have.’

‘He’s still not moved ...’

I don’t think we’d’ve left it much longer before getting up and going over to him, check he was all right, because no-one else was taking a blind bit of notice, but suddenly there was all these pounding feet coming along the beach behind us.   Six blokes, all as black as he, all laughing and joking and shouting at him, running towards him.   The one at the back actually hurdled us, our legs, being more unsighted.   But even as he landed there was a sudden quietness, the laughing stopped and the one at the front said ‘Oh sweet Christ, he’s dead.’

Saturday canvas