Lots of people have said it, I’m not the first (in this or anything) but there is no real silence. There is always noise. I don’t mind. It is a confirmation of life. And even when the world out there is seemingly quiet my own body will groan or whine or creak. It is OK. When I walk there are screeching seagulls, piping oystercatchers, rolling waves and down by the harbour the hum of generators. I like it. It is a rhythm, the purr of time passing.
This town is shabby. It has always been so, at least in my memory. And the Belle Vue hotel is still to be renovated. There it stands, the place that we used to go when I visited him or his mother here, its windows glassless and doors boarded up. The fire, dreadful though it was, was years ago. Will it never be done up? There is no care there. We’d sit in the window and watch the sun go down. It’s in the middle of the Prom, a prime spot. Won’t someone do something about it? Or are we to stop caring?
