The horizon shimmers. Sultry heat sends clouds of flying ants up into a pale sky. Swallows and gulls soar and dive, enjoying this rare summer banquet.

Nearby, the sea sloshes in lethargic motion. On a rock, a crab waves an amputated claw at crows that gather squawking over flesh now brutally torn and shredded.

A lazy, middle aged man, his head red and peeling, scratches wet, hairy armpits and belches a Scrumpy belch. His wife, wearing a Kiss Me Quick hat, shows her tipsy disapproval with a sharp nudge of a bony elbow.

They get up, sand sticking to their backsides and white skinned legs. ‘Ice cream?’ she asks, puckering mock flirtatious lips that deepen into tram-line wrinkles.

Her husband nods and farts a cheese and onion fart. His wife lets out a harsh, lager sodden laugh. Then they sway, arm in arm, like drunken dancers, lurching towards Holly’s Place, leaving their litter behind in a shallow sand pit.