It's Friday and we're in a bar and its pretty crowded but we manage to grab a table, order a few drinks. A few familiar faces come and go, and mostly this bar is filled with people who I probably went to school with, but probably don't know.

And I lean in, and over the music tell Jessica that I'm gonna leave, go some place else. And she smiles, and we make our way though the crowd and out onto the beach. And the weather is wicked, minus twelve, and the pavement snow covered.

As we talk she tells me that this guy, Tim, who we went to school with, who she goes to university with, about how he has been sectioned. Insane. And I look at her and say,
"Well babe, some people don't loose it their entire life, and it must be terrible" and I smile as I'm saying this, and she just looks at me, takes my arm and says

"Well we're not exactly normal now are we"

And I'm trying to think of all the people I knew that used to live around here, and I cant. I can't picture them with out thinking of our High school photographs. Everyone still sixteen, seventeen.

The ones they thought would make it, burnt out in lifeless office jobs, the ones we knew wouldn't, with child in lifeless council flats. Others trying to stay sane, trying to escape. Get out of here.

And I'm watching the spit of the sea crash on the pebble, and the florecences and the street lights, and just staring into the night.

It's Friday and we're in a bar and its pretty crowded but we manage to grab a table, order a few drinks. A few familiar faces come and go, and mostly this bar is filled with people who I probably went to school with, but probably don't know.

And I lean in, and over the music tell Jessica that I'm gonna leave, go some place else. And she smiles, and we make our way though the crowd and out onto the beach. And the weather is wicked, minus twelve, and the pavement snow covered.

As we talk she tells me that this guy, Tim, who we went to school with, who she goes to university with, about how he has been sectioned. Insane. And I look at her and say,
"Well babe, some people don't loose it their entire life, and it must be terrible" and I smile as I'm saying this, and she just looks at me, takes my arm and says

"Well we're not exactly normal now are we"

And I'm trying to think of all the people I knew that used to live around here, and I cant. I can't picture them with out thinking of our High school photographs. Everyone still sixteen, seventeen.

The ones they thought would make it, burnt out in lifeless office jobs, the ones we knew wouldn't, with child in lifeless council flats. Others trying to stay sane, trying to escape. Get out of here.

And I'm watching the spit of the sea crash on the pebble, and the florescences, the street lights, a trawler in the bay, and I'm just staring into the night, into the future.

I'm waiting outside the station, standing next to my luggage, red Ralph Lauren weekend bag and a 1967 Wooden Champagne create, sealed. And snow starts drifting in, caught in the fur on my ski jacket. Jacques pulls up in his silver A3 and we hug hello, and exchanged the kind of pleasantries that old friends do and load my luggage into his car, and he looks at the create as if to suggest its unessential and I laugh.

'You and I know you can't get the good stuff out here' the rough wood catching the orange street light. The moon reflecting in the centre mirror.And it's crisp outside, minus 6, and Jacques looks up and smiles and drops the boot shut.

And we get in the car, and don't say anything until we get to where we're going, just stare at the familiar streets, note the small changes, new hotels, bars, old haunts. And we pull up outside the library and make out way to a wine bar, Gandy Street, and slide into a table.

'So do you think you'll survive, it's not the bright lights here baby?' Jacques
'Sure, why not?'
'It's been months'

I finger the menu. Shiraz or Merlot? 'Three, and I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I'll just have to cut out going to nice restaurants' Shiraz. 'Super premiums' Berry Estates. 'cigarettes, you know, all the good things that you cant find out in the sticks.'

silent laugh 'I'm sure mummies little prince won't go without'.

And several bottles later we split, and end up cruising the streets that we walked at college, reminiscing, and the CD clicks repeat and we make our way home.

And it feels weird, being driven on these roads, lanes, no driving. Being here. Knowing I'm home. Almost like I've been missed out. Jacques's wheels spin on ice at the bottom of the drive. And I get out, tell him I'll see him tomorrow, turn, and look up into the stars, the light catching the cottage above, and smile as I make my way towards the house.

Yes?

A comment on a video I am watching reads...

"The whole point is that elitist people are missing out on real life. Let them have their luxury, they're wasting their lives!"

And this comment has two thumbs up. And I'm thinking about the dinner, a sixtieth wedding celebration, that I went to on Friday, or Saturday. How happy the hosts were, are. And I'm wondering if I'm wasting my life, if I should be married, settled, in love? And I'm wondering if I care.

And then I turn on DMAX and watch two episodes of LA Ink, which, for the record is so much better than Miami Ink.

The TV's on mute. And the presenters are faking smiles, and probably talking about snow, and Christmas. And I'm just watching them, lip reading.

And Don Henley, Boys of Summer, is playing out over the sound system. And

There was a heatwave that summer. My brother and I spent most days at the beach, with my mother. The heat so intense that that tar buckled, expansion gaps failing. The terrace, with its concrete tile so hot it scorched feet, skin.

Come late September the heat was forgotten, and almost every day were overcast. But still Grandpa would take us to the beach. From the deck we'd watch the surf. Whilst Grandma would cook inside. It often rained,momentarily, and you could taste the salt drifting on the wind. Grandpa would still swim, forced by the current, disappear under the surface and reappear hundreds of feet away, how the pebble would cut shins. And the smell of gas from the stove.

Several small boats were recovered from the mouth of the river that year, and I remember thinking why didn't their owners tie them up? The beach was broken, and by October only one flight of steps gave access to the lower level, the rest they said had be found washed up across the channel. Just like the shingle had been washed over the sea walls. Across the streets.

We never had holidays like that after that year.