At an off-licence along the way they stop and get cold beer. They smuggle it into the B & B, all net curtains, chintz and china and a curly ‘Vacancies’ sign.

They sit on the twin beds drinking lager from cans and looking at the newspaper and the tourist leaflets. The weather forecast is sunny tomorrow, and the clocks go back, which means they will have an extra hour. Angela wants to visit the shell house she remembers from day trips here as a child. Not the Shell Grotto – she looks at the picture and doesn’t think they’re the same thing. But they can’t see any other reference to the shell house, so Lisa says they must be. Lisa wants to go on the Big Wheel.

They force themselves to do an hour’s silent reading before bed, Speech and Phenomena for Angela, and Gawain and the Green Knight for Lisa, making it to forty-five minutes before Angela can’t stand it any longer.

Angela talks vaguely about the Derrida essay she is writing. She thinks it will help to talk it through but it doesn’t make sense when she tries. She wonders whether she could structure it using the lyrics of the Scritti Politti song, ‘Jacques Derrida’. Lisa is doubtful. ‘It’s a good idea though, isn’t it?’ says Angela. Lisa grunts.

They make their way through Lisa’s cigarettes, saving one each for the morning. They get an early night, which means eleven o’clock (‘but really ten’), and are up at eight, coughing over the ashtray.

In the empty breakfast room, with its crowded tables and chairs, its artificial stems in vases, they fill themselves with eggs and bacon, toast and jam.

Angela is excited about her Derrida essay. ‘I slept the best sleep I’ve slept for months,’ she says. ‘The Scritti Politti was a real breakthrough.’

‘Pace yourself,’ says Lisa. ‘It’s not even week four.’

‘This is the best meal I’ve had in weeks,’ says Angela. ‘I really want a cigarette now though.’

‘I saved a bit of mine,’ says Lisa, ever provident, and they share half a chipped Marlboro Light over a refill of coffee.

‘Perhaps we could go to a record shop in the afternoon,’ says Angela.

This morning, at half past nine, fresh cigarettes lit, they climb down a metal staircase to the beach. They take off their trainers and socks and walk, single file, along the water’s edge towards the Main Sands. Sunlight glances off the sea, the chalk cliffs still in shadow. They’ve packed day bags with towels and extra clothes and the tourist guides.

At a small cove just before they reach the Sands they sit down, spreading their towels a few yards from the sea. Apart from a couple of dog walkers, there’s no one about. They can hear the quiet lapping of the waves.