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Have just finished reading Sarah Hall's book The Electric Michelangelo and in the midst of BATS latest Salley Vickers Miss Garnet's Angel, both making me think of run down slightly seedy holiday destinations. As I was born on the Lancashire coast the Hall novel had resonances though I thougt it was a bit too neatly symmetrical.
And all he could think about was the great sucking blowing sea at Morecambe Bay, how the tide travelled in and out, in and out, relentlessly, further than almost any other piece of shore on the British Isles, and faster than a grown man could outrun, like the maddening insolvency of love