Do you want to go to the seaside?

Muffled screams and the cheap chinking of timeless pinball machine swim in and out of recognition under the clash of waves and roar of the oceans wind along Brighton pier. It is a cacophony of the most opposed noises, rode by the hormone injected seagulls that swoop and clamour for hot potato chips and fried fish. 

The wind is relentless. You feel as though you're sitting in a salon being worked on by ten different apprentice hairdressers at once, arguing over the cut and style you will have. Your eyes sting from the salt, grains of sand form a gritty lining along your teeth and the boisterous lights of the fair dazzle you to blindness.

But in all this, you're in that happy place. You're invincible. You're not in Kansas anymore.