Ashwem Beach, February 1st, 2025

A Pixar crescent moon. Pink and scarlet haze obscures the horizon like some benevolent, Frank Ocean Mordor.

Boys play football on the flat sand, sticks for goalposts, arguing about the rules of this particular meritocracy. In the distance – cricketers, openly blasphemous. Beyond them, the rustling ocean, its sound barely discernible amidst the scooters whooshing on the road behind me.

The perfection of this idyllic fishing village, encroached by noise, tacky dance music, deep-throated Enfields.

Peace and hedonism battling, the creek dotted by blue plastic bags. Empty spaces gradually filled, sand and shrub surrounded by detritus, the evidence of a doomed, single-use civilisation.

Our species – we just can’t have nice things. Inside me, fury and despair bubble, the anger always there, the violence I wish to inflict, if I could just find a worthy target. Who is to blame?

A sixty-something, moustachioed local gentleman beckons his grandson to come home in the twilight. It’s time for the games to end.

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