I'd just won again at Peanuts and we were sharing a Proper Job

on St Agnes’ beach, watching the surfers with envy. You're more

romantic than I am, aren't you? I said. A spaniel was ecstatic

in the sea spray, following its lolloping tongue. What –

more romantic than a stone, he said. I thought about it. I am

in touch with my feelings. It gets that way after many years

of listening to wild confusion – you finally realise what music,

you half dream about babies, confident in the steadfastness

of the other half of your brain, dallying a tumbler of amber

in one hand, maintaining one eye on the movements of others.

We remained silent until the horizon enflamed the shallows

and the surfers emerged one by one. I could tell he felt like crying

and I didn't mind. We finished our beer, shook hands, went home.