The Coast is clear

The missus and I shot down to the coast yesterday.  Don't get excited; it was only the coast of the Thames Estuary in Essex.  The weather has taken a turn for the better over the last couple of days, so we thought we'd make the best of it buying staring at oil tankers entering Canvey and Tilbury.

While this might not sound too glam, the light yesterday was spectacular - worthy of the Pacific coast of California.  Everything, from the most dangerous-looking and prosaic pub to the morbidly-obese locals, looked fabulous.  We had a good old 3-hour march, stopping only for a lunch of pumpernickel bread and cheese on the beach.  Lovely.

From there it was home on the train through Essex to east London.  The light maintained its peerless form all the way.  I swear to Christ that Benfleet looked like Providence, Rhode Island when the train rolled in there.  There were dozen of brightly-coloured fishing boats all lined up along the sea wall next to the station.  All bobbing along in jolly harmony.  It was wonderful.

Gene Slacker

It's been a splendid weekend in London. The sun shone and the sap was high. The wife and I spent the time constructively. We went to a barbie on Saturday evening. And Sunday we spent crabbing. Everyone was in rare form down at the coast yesterday. Even the crabs seemed to be enjoying the process. We then popped the tin hat on this world-beating weekend by charging around to our local for a brace of sharpeners last thing Sunday evening.

Sadly the pub was empty. That's the way to plays here in the UK on those rare occasions when the sun's cracking the stones. Our average denizen can't resist pouring drink down himself like a man whose lungs are on fire as soon as the temperature crawls above twenty Celsius. By the time we pitched up then, the rest of the vulgar mob had shot off home to assume the recovery position. I suppose it's for the best. I don't want to be harangued after a trying day crabbing.