Brighton

When he finally does wake, he realises how hot the room has become. Without furniture or even curtains to cast shade, the sun has hit through the panel windows, forming a fracture of heat across the wooden floor. A towel, a Pilates mat, a small blanket and a pillow have been surprising allies in sleeping, and although it’s only maybe been four hours, he’s rested enough. Shower goes on, shower goes off.

The phone, as always, bears witness to the nation’s Friday night, text after text, a tiny funeral pyre of money, sense and best intentions slowly sparking up as every sleepy head makes sure they’re still relatively healthy, relatively hassle-free and relatively alive. All it will take is one mini statement, one missed call from a lover that could have been or one dash to the bathroom, but right now, on sacred Saturday mornings, we go through our motions.

Approached by bus, Brighton’s high street is covered in white sunlight; the paving reaching up and almost coming free, it feels elevated, suckling the skies for dry heat. It looks astonishingly like a flat San Francisco this morning, and for a second he closes his eyes and remembers screaming down into Santalito off the Gate, freewheeling and laughing down a devil’s decline.

He leaves the bus and waits for the next one to get him home. With a vague timetable proving unhelpful, he sits down and finally thinks about the night before. He grins.