you end up heading to five dismal resorts, if just to hear their names trip off your tongue.
Bognor, Lyme Regis, Weston-Uber-Mare.
you don’t mind seeing Venice – as it’s prone to do – turn into Birmingham.
you’re frankly failing at appraising urban decay. you end up with a toothy grin, an ice-cream cone.
you make a deal with God and single-handedly cause Brexit.
your skin groans under heatwaves and wishes for fall.
cranes fly past and the earth heaves.
all is well.
By Joanna Kozlowska