You'd be surprised, [ she remarks — well — dryly. ] I find routine a little dull after a few days.

[ In fact, being at the beach is about the closest thing to a holiday she's had in years. It's an odd feeling, even if it is just a day off; it's all been so busy since she landed with the first wave of refugees. She likes being busy, is the thing, likes having a sense of purpose and responsibility. Before the war, she'd convinced herself she could do without. Now, after, she can't abide the possibility.

Peggy frowns slightly, taking in the rather sodden appearance of her fellow countryman, then helps herself to the towel left draped across a lawn chair nearby and holds it out to him. (It's owner, no doubt finding refreshments or out at sea, will return to find it damp but very much right where they left it.) ]

Go on. Although I'm afraid the shirt might be a bit of a lost cause for an hour or so, Mister — ?