The beach was not the chilled-out haven I'd imagined, with thumping club tunes broadcast across the sand from 12am and frighteningly sunburned girls shrieking expletives because someone had moved their sun lounger a little too close. The boys in matching Baywatch outfits appeared too exhausted even to leer, their vision saturated by the flesh on show.
The other day I was asked if I wanted to go on a day trip to Brighton. This is normally the sort of offer that I shun as I like to stay well within my comfort zone, and this felt, well...outside of it. However, born out of the sudden frustration with monotony and lack of real human experiences, I instinctively agreed, and what a decision that turned out to be.
I spent a lot of last month on a holiday. One of those where you get a beach and sunshine and do everything in your eating and drinking power to guarantee the onset of gout. It was one of those charmed periods of life where everything went smoothly, all of my choices were good ones, I barely saw a cloud and set a new world record for the number of Pina Colada's drunk in a 10 day period.