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SAP LAND

On a foggy day, if you stand on the salmon-pink esplanade outside Sap Land and lean on the cold sweat of the iron railings, you can’t see owt. It’s the edge of the world. It’s as though you wished everything away but the esplanade, and Sap Land, and a handful of gulls tossing low in the sky, and this chunk of world is encased in dense, wet cotton wool. Behind you, all the shutters are down and Laughing Sal droops in a stupor. To your left, the Big Wheel is a smudge of clockwork fading behind Fry King, and litter skitters against the warpaint of the arcade. To your right, coin-operated binoculars with their heads scouting skew-wiff. Before you: nothing, as though that bit hasn’t been drawn yet. It’s not easy to draw the sea! You can hear a roar, but maybe that’s the blood rushing in God’s ears.