A lone
writer sits on a town bench, swipes wet sand from a foot with a stripy sock.
Other foot, other sock. Further up the street on a similar seat, a man in a
purple t-shirt is sleeping off a liquid lunch. Seagulls outside food outlets
watch for opportunity. In the air: onions frying, sea-salt, a urine-dampness.
The gulls pace. In shops hang t-shirts, rainbows of t-shirts, shining t-shirts,
print-your-name-here t-shirts and hooded tops with hand pockets and holes for
wires for headphones for your life sound track. Two boys stand outside a coffee
shop, un-ironically play air guitar, sing to some music they love: it
communicates something to them to provoke this signed response: a generational
marker. One lone writer laces up boots and walks on to join friends. In the amusement
arcade they post rapid coins into a cascade game, laughing and laughing till
the campervan toy prize tips, on a tide of pushed pennies, down into the tray.
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