rocking bandstand

The blue corduroy jacket waved in the seawind and its wearer moved chuggingly along the wet beach. His face was darkish and his eyes were dark and knowing. Forever the outsider, lonely beach walks were a standard diversion for his bony frame. He glanced up to the three distinct ridges of sand. In the opposite direction another man walked, slightly quicker. Glad to be alone again, so his savage imagination may prosper a little in this soft sea air, he kept his bright eyes focused straight in front, then he also looked at the three sand ridges then heard the slaps of feet behind. She jogged with affected grace and when she found herself alone she would run slower and even start playfully zig-zagging around the rockpools. When she glanced at the three ridges of sand all three of them simultaneously noticed that each ridge was vastly different- the top one was a rich cinnamon, the middle one an old ginger and the bottom one an tea-orange. The second man then noticed the corduroy lines of the first man and turned them horizontal in his imaginings so that they would be precisely parallel with the distant peer, meanwhile the first man perceived the second man to be the shameful possessor of a melon-like head, while the girl, running passed the second man, imagined both men as being neighbouring bristles on a giant wire brush that would sweep the tiled roof of the old atheneum in a town she passed through three years previously in her bustling days. The sand ridges then collapsed into one finger-shaped whole which pointed to the triumphant, rocking bandstand and that's where Dr Goodvibe told the whole story with eight sharp blasts of a trumpet.

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