The air is choking on the scent of salt and mud, again, and the waters are rising.

Frankly she’s not that impressed, and the rain is starting to come in sideways, as though it has finally decided on a planned and technical attack. The windows are fogged up all day, and by night their breath makes odd swirls on the bedroom mirror as his voice calls out. She drives past an angry sea, and the town is full of angrier men, hepped up on coffee and hot chocolate, because there is nothing else to do but sit and grumble. Occassionaly one ventures out, only to return as if though back from war. Bruised and cold, and longing for a warm bed and a hot woman. Unfortunatly, due to the rising damp, all the bedsheets are now cold and musty, nothing dries and the bathroom smells of mould and wet dog.