I move on down to where the workmen are doing up the dilapidated Tea Rooms. They haul great pieces of wood up the ramp. There is the sound of foreign voices and some chart music plays from a radio. I hope that they are building a restaurant. How nice it might be to go to the beach for dinner, it would be like living somewhere exotic. I imagine myself sitting in the place looking out the window with rain lashing down, pelting against the glass. I imagine that the sea would be fired up and I think that I would still be happy. I head down into White Rock, the smaller cove off the main beach, and I wave at some of the swimmers that I know there. I don’t stop to talk though because I don’t wish to lose my momentum. In order to run up the steps that lead to the iron bridge that goes over the DART line I have to go at them in one fell swoop.