The bank of swans in Princes Park, bloated on stale Sunblest, avoid the wayward shots being launched from the raised 10th tee of the ‘Royal’ Princes Park pitch & putt. Underneath the overhang, a pair of discarded knickers that should never have made it out of the phone box. Every Christmas Eve they promised it would end this way.
Back on the sea side of the road, a dull pat of tennis balls ricochet off the Lifeboat shed and the first of a million tawdry B&B’s waft fried bread, bacon and eggs back down Channel View Road. It is (nearly always) time to move on to the actual beach…
The sea, ridding itself of ozone and seaweed, pushes up the past the Queen’s median high-tide line. Orange rope meshes with old fishing nets and the rust spreads like some kind of twisted cruel virus of the future. The wretched swell of decay takes a firm grip and the first sign of the path of the beaten army, signposted by the discarded trail of chip wrappers and cans of Top Deck and Colt 45 leads us beyond the Butterfly Centre and towards the Fisherman’s Club.
Over on the horizon, the Royal Sovereign Lightship is scuttled and the Royal Sovereign Light Platform rises from the sea. A portal to a new Atlantis… to be decommissioned in 2020!
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