'We've got to go to Pobbles today to get some rope for Di's cross.'
'I've got some rope in the garage.'
'No, it's got to be washed up, thrown out, discarded rope to be authentic.'
For Baz's funeral Sean tied white ribbons that everyone from Zac's had written messages on around the driftwood cross I'd made for Zac's ages ago. When Di asked if it would be possible to have a cross as well I collected some driftwood from Swansea beach but I couldn't find any rope. Hence the trip to Pobbles this morning. 'There's always rope on Pobbles.'
Husband and I wandered around until, after scrambling over some slippery rocks, Husband found a long piece of rope. That was wedged under one of the slabs.
'Have you got a knife on you?' Husband asked. I'm not sure whom he thought he was addressing. If he'd wanted a dog biscuit, poo bag, prayer pebble, or Sainsbury's receipt I could have obliged but knives don't come high on my Must-carry-with-me-at-all-times list. Obviously they should.
I left Husband perched there trying to untie knots ('You used to be a sailor') while George and I continued beach-combing along the high tide mark.
Where we came across several pieces of rope as well as two spades.
I also spotted a fabulous tree stump that would have been big enough for a life-sized driftwood cross but Husband refused to drag it back up from the beach.
He 'will do anything for love but I won't do that.'