Under Your Skin
“Seagulls as big as cats perch along the turquoise balustrades with their backs to the sea, as if the drama is taking place in front of them, not behind. It’s olive green out there, foaming white, the sky a paler, bluer gray, the swell filling and rising, like the wing of a plane and then rolling in, pulling and sucking on the shingle. A dog noses past, and the stripy gulls flap up, squawking and chaotic, before landing in the same row a few feet farther on. Fresh in the air is ozone and diesel ...and the smell of hot fried doughnuts.
“I actually think the seaside is nicer in winter,” I say. “Don’t you? The colors and everything. It’s much more romantic.”
Philip is trudging with his head down. He has switched his BlackBerry off for the morning. He is almost catatonically silent, but that at least suggests he is making an effort.
“Do you remember when I was on Newsnight and had to do all the party-political conferences? Do you remember bunking off work and coming to Blackpool to join me, to that scuzzy hotel on the front?MoreLess
“I actually think the seaside is nicer in winter,” I say. “Don’t you? The colors and everything. It’s much more romantic.”
Philip is trudging with his head down. He has switched his BlackBerry off for the morning. He is almost catatonically silent, but that at least suggests he is making an effort.
“Do you remember when I was on Newsnight and had to do all the party-political conferences? Do you remember bunking off work and coming to Blackpool to join me, to that scuzzy hotel on the front?MoreLess
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