take me back to dear old blighty

I am standing with a friend in one of those tatty four-sided seafront shelters where the glass is broken and the once eau-de-nil metal uprights are streaked with orange rust stains. I'm bending down to retrieve my camera, which for some reason I have left in amongst the litter under the wooden seat.

As I stand up a crowd of badly permed, chain-smoking Chinese women carrying cups of milky tea crowd in around me. They have identical smoke-stained teeth, floral blouses, and navy-blue cardigans. Some are wearing large dark glasses. They blow smoke at me through their noses and cackle amongst themselves, pushing their cups towards me.

There are days when I am grateful for the call of the alarm clock.