On the black horizon, a blinding mirror like some fortune telling stone, caught my eye but made it turn and cringe away. Pied wagtails flitted underneath the bench I stopped to write on, twitching biscuit crumbs into the air like they were only fit to discard, and like I wasn't there. I walked on gritty wet sand in the scoops cut out by the diagonal waves. A fisherman carried a folding chair out onto the green algae world of the jetty. It looked strangely neat out there - carpet, view, tools laid out, what looked like one of my old kitchen chairs.
Walking home, I was happy to have let the sun see me for a while after lots of gloomy skies. Then came the best thing. As I waited to cross the main road, the bus that came along was named Dusty Springfield.