"The Seafront"

It’s dusk and the promenade is rain-licked and grey. The flat expanse of concrete curls clean along the lip of the sea, which is punching great cold fists of water against it in a frenzy of February cold.

Down along the seafront at intermittent intervals the concrete dips down to face the sea; a moment for boats departing or waves arriving. There, the fist of the sea claws at the incline like it would smash it to shingle and drag it under.

And there, standing perfectly still, just against the sea, are a couple; ramrod straight. He is arms crossed and bespectacled. She is small and domestic; a biscuit-baking denizen of the middle-class kitchen.

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