Not far from my front door is an empty beach.
A wasted boat sprawls across some sticky lumps of ugly mud, like some hard up painted tart, waiting for a few quid from some roughed-up hand, while creased-up men with baseball caps and ladies trying to keep their rosy cheeks at bay, sometimes appear in the distance.
Well, it wouldn’t be the same if they were nearby would it?
Like the boat and hard up tart I suppose.
Anyway, I walk along the shore-line like some love-sick teenager bitten by a holiday romance, and thank my lucky stars that I was born in the 1950’s.
I really wouldn’t like to be born again you know, everything has become far too squeaky, far too clean.
I wonder if the hard up tart would feel the same way?