Drinking Brandy on Whitstable Beach
(for Naomi and Tim) As if this is what I was meant for and it's taken forever to find place and vocation. I'm swashbuckling, hearty and fresh from the sea. Over the sea-honed stones, exultant I crunch in my old-salt's boots. It's sure stones, sea's sting and brandy's burn that I love, sitting and swigging on a groyne that won't last; facing the music with a big globed glass in my gladly cold hand. Happy at last, drinking brandy on Whitstable beach.
All those childhood years spent watching the men gargle the strong stuff and now I've the art of the fragile goblet, the magic draught: two fingers either side the stem; globe in palm; the lingering, appreciative swirl and sniff before the first sip, then the fire in the throat, fierce as a kiss.
0 I could make a career out of this,
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