Monday, 9 April 2012

11.00am. Easter Monday. Margate.

Wet weather. Empty beach. Turner Contemporary a noisy art appreciation exercise for the miserable offspring of the middle class.

"But Daddy, anyone could have done that" said the ten year old.

I went to the Nayland shelter.

 'On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
  TS Eliot.

The only other man there is drinking whisky. I am smoking. I give him the cigarette he asks for and suggest nothing in return. It isn't kindness. I doubt his personal cleanliness.

Home now. Mea culpa. There is no whisky here.

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