I’m wondering about the man who contemplates the water, the dark, inky black water, late at night. He stares and stares, harrumphs, kicks his heels and retires into one of the worst pubs in Brighton, the Master Mariner. Later on he comes out again, leans on the rail on the edge of the water and thoughtfully eyes the water some more, before retiring back inside. A third time he emerges, waits, watches and when he’s sure no-one is paying attention, lets slip a plastic bag, which plops into the shallow depths beside the quayside.
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