Florida

Florida- state of sunshine. State of swamps, angst, hate and love. Grass banks and green verges and rolling lawns of golf. Fronds and palms. After twelve the sun after its zenith begins to think of home and rolling westward sends down blazing beams to the white-trousered golfers, who take no notice.

Florida of retirement homes crocodiles Cubans and Crockett and Stubbs white-jacketed. Impersonal millionaire homes. And Fug, an Asian boy with prominent teeth and rich parents, went on holiday to Florida and sent us back a cliché postcard of girl in bikini. "Wish You Were Here".

The kind of afternoon when in Florida shadows of flags are seen on green grass of golf lawns and the thwack of a ball is heard.

Sunlight in holiday homes- reminds me of old holidays in theme parks. Alton Towers with its rides, its discontented English families, harassed at wooden picnic tables in safari parks. We sit nearby on an unfurled mat, eating boiled eggs.

Mood is post-entertainment, afternoon, aftermath, the brass band has packed up and called it a day.

And wouldn't you know it those English families always leave litter behind, a white packet motionless on the grass, an abandoned straw, child-suck'd, crushed.

A lazy and agreeable impression or mood: post-holiday themepark. The sun westing. Isn't it about time we were getting home? And leaving litter behind, drifting white specks in the grass.

I am in the pagoda-bandstand. A marquee where the oompah bands of Oktoberfest come to play n quaff mugs of frothy beer.

The Marquee of stained and fragrant wood, immeasurably ancient, railings constructed of Flintstone logs...