Today has been an action packed day, and it is nearly over. Here I am, on line one of today’s post, listening to my family ensconced in the jacuzzi, yowling Blow The Man Down in the manner of alleycats. No words, just yowls. I know not why. Perhaps I should ask them.

On the dot of approximately half past ten this morning, the hollow little forties doorbell of our holiday home chimed as only it knows how, and Maddie hastened to admit three of our great friends.

Two have two legs, one has four, and it was the golden cannonball who exploded through the door first, heaving in her wake Auntie Nicky. Can’t stop, pronounced my friend, as the dog made an exocet-like path down the hall, dragging Nicky remorselessly into the great bright lounge with the picture window.

Barley the golden retriever made do with frantic circles, while the rest of the contingent arrived and settled themselves in front of the sea view. My friend, and her son, my godson, sat with us and talked about everything and nothing, and whether that layer of cloud was all bluster.

Which it indeed proved to be. It has been a day of good-natured dog walks,  very long jacuzzis, comfort meals and endless cups of tea and shortbread.

We walked to the shell shop, which had a dearth of masculine footballs which engender street-cred, and so Felix and his hero had to make do with a fey yellow ball with stars on it, to play on the beach.

This worked well in the morning, when we had miles of sand stretching across a vast football-pitch paradise; but by the afternoon the sea had crept up, leaving only a small stretch in which to play.

Woe was me, for I was the only one in wellies.

Our companionable talk was punctuated by calls of Kate, the ball’s in the sea, quick, quick, rescue it.

It only remained for me to accelerate from  0-20mph in ten seconds, careering across the beach in my great gallumphers towards the starry yellow sphere daring me deeper into the rippling shallows.

Once Phil tried it, possibly forgetting that he was in his prized leather leisure loafers, and the little yellow ball won that round. Wet feet were the order of the day.

Ice creams, a book each from the bookshop in town, a gift of mood rings for my daughter: the day was a wealth of trivial detail which was quite simply delicious.

About 120 years ago another family traipsed down to the South Coast in search of a week away from the hustle and bustle of life. They were Charles, Carrie and Lupin Pooter, formerly of Punch fame and ultimately the subject of their own novel, created by George And Weedon Grossmith.

The Diary Of A Nobody is built squarely on the inconsequential. The genius of the Grossmiths was to see that such insignificance could be both very funny; and endearing.

Charles is a city clerk, Carrie his wife, and Lupin his upstart of a son.

And where better for this middle class family to take their holidays than the gracious resort of Broadstairs.

The minute they arrive, Charles drowns us in the insignificant: they have found rooms near the station which are comfortable, and half the price of the ones on the seafront. The landlady does a good tea although Lupin creates, because he has found a fly in the butter.

Lupin refuses to walk along the street with Charles because he is wearing his brand new holiday clothes:a new straw helmet and a frock coat.

And what does an upstanding Victorian do in a seaside town when it rains in the evening? Why, he goes to bed early, of course. So his son, ever the adventurer, wanders out into the night.

When an outraged Charles questions his son the next morning, Lupin retorts with brazen off-handedness: “Oh, it was only ’for one night only.’ I had a fit of the blues come on, and thought I would go to see Polly Presswell, England’s Particular Spark.”

And there it is: a detail no-one could possibly be interested in, the stuff of bores, and yet it epitomises a time.

If we researched the aforesaid Polly Presswell, we might find her, and with the discovery would come a flood of information about a time we will never capture again. Could it be that this is is the closest we will ever get to time travel?

Phil swept into the room at about line five of my post. He announced that They have found proof of time travel.

They, in this case, are Belfast-based Yellow Fever Productions, and their front man is George Clarke.  At the moment Phil stalked into my room he has excited 1,569,512 views on YouTube. Oh, the democracy of the World Wide Web.

He has been studying the detail of a favourite set of films of his; and he has found an incongrous detail indeed.

He refers to film clips which were made in addition to Chaplin’s The Circus. This one is a shot of the cinema where the film was premiered.

And – bear with me here – he has alleged that if one slows down the clip, one can see a woman walking past, talking on a mobile phone.

I’ve watched it, and its one interpretation; but I’m going out on a limb here, and declaring I believe the whole thing to be hocum and poppycock.

But what imaginitive poppycock: to choose a tiny detail and weave a story which might spawn a whole conspiracy theory!

Throughout history there have been cons like this, proof of the impossible: Loch Ness Monsters crossing the waters, and fairies at the end of the garden. Each created a set of stories which, provided one saw them for what they were, could entertain beyond measure.

Of course many of these stories are not true, and those who conceived them could be thought of as conmen and charlatans. But, whatever we think of the ethics, someone has a nose for a damn good story.

Detail, then, walks this earth in disguise. It wears a brown overcoat, appearing to be unimportant and inconsequential and even tedious.

But look how it can make us laugh: how it can transport us back further than a century; and how, because our mind pounces on it like a kitten on a feather, it can convince us that black really is white.