Tormented winds plead their case, beg for understanding; stained glass catches their tears; solid wooden doors refuse to listen.

There’s a sense of organised bedlam in the kitchen. The smoke stampedes out of the oven and heads for the fire alarm. I pull out the tray to access the sizzling fare. A teenager laughs from across the room, comments ‘Wow! Look at that row of sausages!’ It’s pretty impressive, actually – thirty-four sausages plus bacon plus … I’m smiling through the chaos, doing well, catering for an unexpected extra four hungry kids for New Year’s Day brunch. Brunch...

Waves gate-crash the party on the pebbled beach, appropriating unwanted secrets, drowning tears, whisking away worries, leaving welcome space for fresh hopes, aspirations, dreams.