It is Pumpkin who first peers out over the yacht-studded marina, the boats bobbing like origami ornaments in the late afternoon lull.
This time, it is the balcony of our new abode where he surrenders, a welcome change from the corner of the bathroom, where he and his Instagram husband comrades have been imprisoned many a time before, whilst their often self-absorbed blogging wives photograph the room from all angles. The “it’s for the blog” drone fails to inspire him, the “I need to tweet this” challenges his core beliefs on human needs.
Quietly, he has the last laugh. He recalls why we have really come here, the depth of his sentiment swelling in comparison to the paucity of his conversation.