To the right, a doorway to showers and washing machines. To the left and into a hall, formica-topped tables and plastic chairs set out. Most are taken, but we find a corner and settle down, me and JD, Eyes and Man, and our three friends from under the pier. The men go up to a long bench and return with tea and sandwiches. We eat and Man mingles, giving it large to the scarier types. Eventually they disappear out of a back door, and he returns, smiling. Eyes raises an eyebrow and Man nods. She breathes a visible sigh of relief - not for herself, but for him.
Eventually we leave and head into town. We find the busiest area, in a large modern square at the top of town, and Eyes and I sit down and start to ply our trade. Man sets up across the way, juggling balls flying, JD's scarf ruffling in the breeze. He seems to be doing more watching than earning. The music gets lost in the crowd, and not a great deal happens, but eventually the coins start to fall and the mood of both music and musician lifts.
We run through our usual repertoire. Old busking favourites - Bright Eyes, Stranger on the Shore, Annie's Song. The flute sings out, clear and strong. Irish jigs dance across the pavement, fingers flying, breaths coming quick and sharp. More slowly now, English folk. The Young May Moon and it's ilk. Summer is Coming. Then a few classics, as Eyes starts to get bored and her ability shines through. The Halle Sonatas soar out amongst the shoppers, and Dvorak turns surprised heads. Chanson de Matin raises eyebrows. Satie's Third Gymnopedie stops them in their tracks. Unfortunately none of these actually draw any of the hard stuff we are after, so it's back to the beginning and Bright Eyes all over again.
Back to the pier and the humans stretch and smoke. Man is not happy with the meagre haul. He is particularly unimpressed with how small his portion of it is. Words are exchanged and Eyes hangs her head as she agrees to take on the burden of making the next day's money whilst Man goes off in search of The Big Issue, whatever that may be. He relaxes and skins up. She sighs and I curl up. JD throws up, and Man is after him, dragging whatever rank remains he is attempting to eat from between his jaws. The party disperses.
Dusk stretches it's fingers along the coast, and lights flicker on along the prom. The pier is reflected along it's length, the lower version dancing like fire in the water below. The beach clears, and we surface from our gravel-strewn home and amble along the front, a happy group of five adults and four dogs. I dart amongst their legs, weaving between the long human ones, and getting tangled in those of my fellow canines, who nip and growl at me in that maternal way reserved for the baby amongst them.
Eventually we find another group of street people, some faces familiar from this morning, others not. This time everything is calm, as the unspoken etiquette of the soup kitchen calms tempers and admonishes drunks. "These people are here to help us", the older, bigger, and scarier ones say, "Have some respect." One man won't listen, and there is a tussle before he leaves with his proverbial tail between his legs. I watch it all from my hiding place beneath Eyes' skirt, reaching my nose up and my tongue out to take pieces of sandwich and pools of soup poured onto the floor for my satisfaction.
Afterwards we head back down to the stark uprights of our beachfront mansion. Beds are rolled out and joints rolled. I sniff about under the boards and between the timbers, discovering a whole delicious world of seaweed and burger leavings, shellfish and chip wrappers. I have my fill, before returning to curl up in the bed and drift off to sleep, listening to the gentle crash of the waves on the shingle just feet away.
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