First spring day of the year, and a gentle eventide amble along the beach, the lights of the Isle of Wight over the water and few pedestrians. Fishermen optimistically set out their tackle on unforgiving shingle and boy racers with low profile tyres and underfloor neon lights practise handbrake turns in the car park, to the annoyance of the local citizenry. Ran across three children of indeterminate preadolescent age wanting to bum cigarettes in exchange for a swig of cider. At the risk of stifling latent entrepreneurial talent, I declined. Passing a totally empty amusement arcade, the weeping buboe on every British seafront, I was glad I wasn’t paying the electricity bill. Loud, presumably inviting music was piped to a waiting multitude of about half a dozen pipistrelles who swooped and wheeled, obviously trying to outfly the noise. It’s sunny in the picture, which is rare.