Walking past the Pier I see two police vans and three officers, one standing in the road the other two on the Prom. A man is semi-lying on the ground, his back propped up against the railing, another stands a couple of feet away from him. Both carry cans of lager in their hands. The standing man is talking loudly, seemingly at the two police officers near him. I can’t quite catch what he is saying, something about CCTV. The man on the ground calls out to him, his speech a slow, slurred drawl. There’s no point kicking off, David, he says. Then a little louder, calling David! I walk by.
The red light on the war memorial has added poignancy for me after listening to Wilfred Owen’s poems and letters read out on the radio, barely an hour earlier. It hardly lights it, it just spills red over its form – a bleeding.
A bonfire is still ablaze on the beach. I love that smell of burnt wood.
Slater’s Bakery emits a gorgeous smell too. I need the comfort these mornings, the anxiety has taken hold of me. I try to breathe it out, rolling my back and shoulders. Just let it be. It will pass eventually, even if it is to be death that finally takes it. So be it. My pain is nought. My fear an illusion. I know this.