I was standing in the drizzle on Brighton beach, this afternoon, staring
at the sloping wreckage of the West Pier; pigeons and seagulls lined
along the contours of the tilting ballroom roof, and a floorless,
smashed-open ticket booth hanging emptily above the breaking waves.
Inspiring, hermetic stuff. I took an armful of poor-quality digital
photos of it, as well as a few of the Palace Pier's ghost train wreckage;
camera held high above sheet-covered wire fencing, a scorched helter-skelter