Sand is a moving nail file, an emery board extraordinaire, smoothing away the rough edges of dead bits of feet and getting under nails.
Sand is a never ending bumpy, lumpy, shifting, softly undulating yet sometimes quite flat and hard desert.
Sand is an infinity of potentials: potential castles, trenches, holes, moats, snakes and animals – potentially anything your hand can turn to your mind’s imaginings.
Sand is an unwitting irritant, plaguing your mouthfuls of lunch at the beach.
Sand is a reminder that grit endures – unfortunately often in the creases of one’s thighs or elsewhere that is equally uncomfortable.
Sand is a treasure trove for hunters with metal detectors, searching for ancient artefacts.
Sand is a money box for lost ten pence pieces.
Sand is the lost and found department of the ocean, where all sorts of things wash up.
Sand is a people magnet, with windbreaks, beach towels, deckchairs and half-tents, buckets, spades, sun-hats and cool-bags, ice-creams and frisbees, factor 20 and total sunblock.
Sand is a welcome mat for swimmers returning and boats arriving – a diplomat of meet and greet.
Sand is a hiding place, for lovers and nudists.
Sand is also a litter tray.