Alex was out for a walk, taking in his first view of the Fircombe product: the raw materials he had to work with to create those attractive propositions to entice visitors away from the competition.
What he saw was a sobering sight. Fircombe off-season was a place devoid of life and largely devoid of hope. Desolate, verging on the post-apocalyptic, soundtracked by the call of scavenging gulls. A row of beach huts slumped dejectedly against the dunes. Beach huts not decked in the jaunty colours of childhood imaginings – bright yellows and greens against the summer sky – but grey and inviting as a crime scene.
As Alex stalked the deserted promenade, his only company was the incessant wind, rolling the sand across the tarmac, inch by inch. He passed closed B&Bs and boarded-up arcades – shutters clattering on rusted hinges, cracked and peeling paint cruelly exposed without the neon glitter.
Frank B writes 