Worthing

It was a grey day, but still I was on a train to the sea. In my dreams recently I had turned into a mermaid.

Out the window were grey buildings, grey platforms and I yearned for colour. (Despite O.N. Rood - "Colour is nothing but a sensation and has no existence at all independent of the nervous systems of living beings.")

I went to the museum and saw the usual rocks and pots, and a collection of old clothes, animals made from junk, pictures of the seaside, and old swimming costumes.

I found the memorial for pigeons that died during the war. Warrior pigeons.

I ate ice-cream despite the weather. I peered inside the former lido, at the funfair that was closed inside.

I followed the route from a tourist map, looking for upturned boats that were now porches. I found the artists' huts, mostly concrete. I saw the dummy in the phone box.

It was when I walked up the pier though, to the end of the pier, when I heard music. "Atlantis?" I wondered. "Music from mermaids?"

I looked down into the water after that and it was a brilliant lurid green and went on for miles, despite the mist that hid the buildings on the shore.