At the Seaside, by Peter Shilston

“I have come to the sea. I hate the sea”.

     He had much the same thought every year. There was so much about the seaside that he disliked. The strange and unpleasant fishy smells. The way sand got everywhere when the wind blew: into his eyes, his hair, his clothes: all very irritating for a fastidious gentleman. The perpetual taste of salt on his lips. Not to mention the extortionate prices charged by mediocre hotels in the holiday season. 

     But of course there were compensations. He would be sure to meet some attractive young girls, and with luck their mothers would allow him to photograph them, and to write to them afterwards. It would all be very pleasant. But in his heart he knew that any such episode would be no more than a doomed attempt to recapture the joy of a lost love from the past, which now survived only in memory. Here he was, a middle-aged gentleman, moderately successful and prosperous, with plenty of friends, but afflicted with a gnawing feeling of loneliness. 

    Fortunately, he never remained despondent for long. While he was collecting together the toys to attract the attention of children, he ran through in his mind a jokey little poem about his dislike of the seaside, and before he set out for the beach he jotted it down. He signed it, as was his wont, “Lewis Carroll".