Tim Dowling: my wife and I are swimming against the tide on our day at the beach

My wife and I are away for the weekend, and I am trying to get used to being the sort of person who travels with two dogs. But it just seems insane. We pull into a car park near a beach. The off-season is the only time people with dogs can go to the beach. The car park is oddly busy, and my wife, who is driving, has to pause until the way ahead clears.

“Look at them all,” I say. “Backing in.”

“What are you talking about?” my wife says.

“Everybody reverses into parking spaces now,” I say. “It’s a thing.”

“Is it?” she says.

“See all the cars along there?” I say. “Every single one, backed in.”

“Are you saying I should reverse in?” she says.

“No,” I say. “You should do it the normal way. Nose first.”

“And what’s so terrible about backing in?” she says.

I haven’t really thought about this part. I’ve never been in a position to defend my view; I was barely aware that I held it.

“It’s like they all think they need to make a quick getaway,” I say. “Self-importance, pure and simple.” Until I can think of something better, this will have to do.

A space opens up in front of us as a backed-in Range Rover lurches off at speed.

“Out of my way!” I say, pretending to be the driver. “The cheese shop is closing!”

My wife pulls into the space, bonnet first.

“Bit crooked,” she says.

“Never mind,” I say. “You did the right thing.”

The tide is out, the wind is light, and the flat expanse of beach is overrun with dogs. Many people, like me, have two dogs. Some have three.

“Ridiculous,” I say quietly, realising I haven’t got a leg to stand on.

The new dog has never been to a beach, and thinks it’s the best thing ever, or at least so far. The dog darts and leaps and digs in the sand. It runs in zigzags and flings lumps of seaweed into the air. Meanwhile the old dog and I mope by the water’s edge.

“Having fun?” my wife yells.

“Uh-huh,” I say. A rogue wave rolls in. I lift the old dog into the air as the water overtops my boots.

On the way back from the beach, my mood unimproved by wet feet, I find myself rehearsing other arguments.

“And they make a huge production out of the manoeuvre, while everyone else just has to wait.”

“Who is they?” my wife asks.

“The backer-inners,” I say. “They’re not even good at it.”

“We should probably get some petrol while we’re out,” she says.

“Fine,” I say. “There’s one just up here, at the supermarket.”

My wife goes into the petrol station while I fill the tank. My shirt and trousers are covered in muddy paw prints. The car smells like a kennel. The worst of it, I think, is that I’ve forfeited the right to complain about people like me. Life is mean, and so am I.

Inside the petrol station, I find my wife in the queue to pay.

“I’m going to the loo,” she says, dumping some items of shopping into my arms. I reach the front, and lay the items down.

“Just these and the petrol at pump two, please,” I say.

My wife emerges from the loo and approaches the counter.

“Does the loo have a light?” she says.

“A light,” says the man behind the counter.

“Yes, that’s correct,” my wife says.

“Yeah, it has a light,” he says.

“Well it’s not working,” she says. The man sighs.

“I’ll have a look in just a minute,” he says. My wife returns to the loo door and yanks it open.

“Oh wait, it’s come on now,” she says. “Never mind!” The loo door shuts behind her.

“I love customers like that,” the man says, rolling his eyes.

The thing I should say occurs to me immediately: that customer, young man, is my wife. Instead, I pause.

“I know, right?” I say, touching my card to the machine.

“It’s like, the light is on a sensor, just wait! But they don’t want to wait.”

“Typical,” I say.

“Have a good day,” he says.

I go out to the car so the man will not see my wife and I are together. By the time we set off both dogs are fast asleep; for a moment, the car is silent.

“That light did not fucking come on the first time,” my wife says.

“Look,” I say, pointing at the supermarket car park. “Backed in, backed in, backed in.”