On the beach that still wintry morning, she walked gently in a straight line along the water’s edge-where the foam curled and the sand failed to resist her prints-whilst thinking in zig-zags: a reflection here, a wondering there. And back again. Meanwhile her dog ran in zig-zags and yet was clearly thinking in straight lines; he knew what he wanted: sticks. The wind presented that lovely British expression: 'fresh'. But the sky was clear, her scarf was warm and the sun had promise. Life was good. Clouds rolled and a surfer surrendered. Girl and dog returned to their respective zig-zags.