A jellyfish lay spread-eagled on the hard wet sand by the water's edge. Stray ragworm wound their excitable way to land, before diving below the sandy surface in fear of their lives. Half-broken and shattered seashells lay scattered in a haphazard mosaic of timeless iniquity as the tide made its tired and monotonous way out from the beach.

A small red Mini roared toward him driven by a nervous driver, or so he thought. He looked along the sand dunes and heard it before he saw it. He disregarded its presence and looked out to where three large ferries battled for supremacy of his consciousness.

Taking a step forward he bent and picked up a half-shell. He perused it slowly, not really taking anything in. He turned it over ever so slowly so he wouldn't miss even an iota of its uniqueness. He tried to weigh the contrast between its present degeneration and how it must have looked when it was new, young and pristine. He blinked slowly and cast it aside. The motor roared nearer but he paid no mind. It was the seafront and people practised motor suicide tricks here every day.

A couple wearing windcheaters hurried past on their way to fitness and good health. The comical way that they purposefully flailed their arms entertained him. It was as though they were trying to regenerate their cardio-vascular systems by pumping something unseen, but very timely and vigorous, into their system. They resembled tired and aged robots, would that they had thought of their bodies at a younger age then this last gasp, stop-gap attempt at becoming metronomes would not be necessary, or maybe they were running away, slowly. Running away from the deranged Nigel Mansell as he neared this end of the beach. It was a fly, not a car; at least that's what it felt like. He wished for a swatter, one of those red-handled, plastic fly swatters with the silly square-mesh paddles attached to the end. Only now he needed a fly swatter twelve feet long. Either way he needed a bloody big o.

He scratched his neck and thought he was going mad. A rowboat with two men inside scurried past on a rollercoaster made of waves. He saw them and sniffed a deep draught of air into his lungs. If salt was bad for you why is salt air so good? He waved back at the two men in the boat as they waved excitably at him.

"Nice people these," he thought and didn't mean it really.

He heard the roar again, God it was close now. Where is it now? He looked around. It was in the sea, on its back, its wheels spinning crazily on their axles. It was dead. No need for a swatter now.

^