Eastbourne Pier

Crashing waves, the distant jazz from the restaurant at the very end, almost unnoticeable against the wind whipping through the rusty metal structure below.

Slipping down the ramp, perfectly into the haven of opulence,

The tearooms of sheer delight, chandeliers more twinkly than a clear starry night.

Warm golds and reds, enough decadence for the Queen,

The clitter-clatter of china teapots, gasps of those surrounding me, surprise from the shelf upon shelf of afternoon teas, arriving on their tables like trophies,

Aren’t we all so adult? Treating ourselves to these moments, joined by the exquisite disbelief that this is all on a rickety little pier.

The pier, older than us all, and still to outlive us too.

How funny our lives are to enjoy these things throughout periods, like nothing has changed once you step off the land and into the previous era.