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
Nothing.' 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.