I am on a big ass beach in Dorset. Serious! The bizzare wonders of current technology mean I can write into my telephone, even here on a stony old beach in medieval dorset, waves to my right, caves to my left.
They call this the jurrasic coast, because of all the fossil filled lime everywhere. “80 percent of the chalk in my Rennie,” my acid-bellied little brother tells me, “comes from right here.” The boy is currently rampaging about the beach with seaweed wrapped around his head. Zef, the smallest brother has been in the sea, fully clothed, and is lying noisily about being warm. I look up at the cliffs, and see a hawk, hanging motionless in the wind. Looking for lunch. Hanging, looking… Then gone, pow! I wish I were a hawk. My eyesight is terrible, and I can’t even keep still in my sleep. Last night, laying in the tiniest single bed I’ve seen since I was one (and slept in a suitcase) in this caravan my old man’s rented, I dreamt some government sponsored “vandals” smashed famous public art works and their plinths, and unleashed a plague of cancer and snakes in London. I woke to the anguished cries of my brother, who had an unwanted eyefull of my balls. Forsooth!