A seaside town in the off season is pretty grim. The pier with its amusement arcades appears decrepit, avaricious. Desolate, deserted, the wind blows and bored attendants smoke, killing time.3

The power is still on, shutters open, it's not quite the winter shutdown yet. But the gaudy plastic sits idle, bright colours made pale by the absence of a crowd, by grey skies and persistent drizzle.

The cafés and ice cream stalls are gone, windows closed and empty tables home only to crying gulls. People walk by, hunched, cold, shrouded in raincoats and apathy. Not lingering, not seeing, just passing by.

The ghost of summer lingers, not dead, but dying.