Living on a pretty small island, I’m never more than about 6 yards (5.49 metres, or even ‘meters’, if you insist), yet these days I almost never head to the coast to take in the sea air. Last weekend however, having re-read Moby Dick, I was inspired to take a trip to the supposedly ‘Great’ British seaside, to reinvigorate my palid countanence, to get some saltly sea air in my lungs.
I realised whilst I was there that the sea – or rather my proximity to it – has a direct causal effect on my metal state. Locked safely away in a darkened room in London, I am a polite, quiet, well mannered strip of a man. Place me by the ‘wild mistress’ though, and I change. I become excited and unruly, a bit of an idiot you might say. It’s something like the effect a full moon has on a werewolf, only without the blood and a bit less fur. I was tearing around, jumping up and down and literally having to be restrained from diving into the chilly, choppy waters of the English (oh, alright, French) channel.
A few days later, I was sorting out some photo albumns on the laptop, when I noticed that in almost every picture of me near the sea, I was acting in a similar way –
– basically, like a child. I have probably 15-20 pictures of me by the sea, and in none of them am I acting normal. I guess it’s why people love to the coast on holiday, but it’s a good job I don’t live there, I’d be exhuasted.