Wish You Were Here?
It was Monday morning and Jack was sat on the beach drinking a mug of coffee and smoking a joint he had bought down from his beach-front flat. Brighton was an odd place at the best of times but the period he was now in, between 7am and 10am some how showed the city at its oddest. There were the party-goers drunk from the weekend wondering how they would get back to their hotel, hoping they could remember how to get there. Then you had the street drinkers out to get their first fix of the week and to start their begging to support their habit. It was a curious scene and if you factor in the lack of people going to work in a suit it was hard to really comprehend that it was Monday morning. The people that Jack saw in suits looked unhappy that another weekend had past and that they had to return to their dull office jobs; they appeared jealous of the street drinkers and their freedom.
Jack surveyed the scene. He couldn't really afford any thing outside of the essentials, a small amount of cannabis, enough food and occasionally a drink in a pub where what kept him going. He was not a happy person and he had grown to despise the decadence of this town where the gap between the mega-rich and people like him was so wide. He worked a low-wage job, part-time, in a well-known supermarket chain and he hated it. He needed a holiday but never had enough money so all he could do was sit and get stoned on the beach dreaming of writing postcards to friends from exotic locations.
3 June 2013