Behind the high sea wall, the Old Lady stood staring over deserted stretches of wet sand to the rusting girders and defiantly bright, blue and white kiosks of the pier. Strings of grey lightbulbs linked the two, looping their way down the promenade and back; occasional empty sockets breaking the pattern.

Draining the shot glass he couldn’t stretch out any longer, the bar’s sole occupant got up and left for his room. Passing reception, he performed his catch-phrase skip, lurch and leer at the receptionist. She flashed back a customer-service smile; the kind that vanishes without trace. Barry grimaced and started up the stairs, only to come to a halt engulfed in a tide of girls: Romanian dancers - he’d seen their coach arrive. Their chatter lost in the height of the grand staircase, the troupe flit by, intent and oblivious. They'd be gone tomorrow; arrived and gone without touching the sides. By a signed photograph of Lillie Langtry, Barry scratched at an itch, looking after them. Three hours… then he had another whisky shot riding on his audience not outnumbering the bar-staff again this evening.

It was a bet he’d not call in. Come dark, the ceiling in room 316 would crack across. There’d be broken cornices, lumps of plaster, suffocating dust… Barry would struggle awhile, then not.

The current spat down a string of lightbulbs and tripped at a bare socket. The Grand Old Lady settled further into her foundations with an expectant shiver of her dusty chandeliers.

Isolated in tarmac behind the high sea wall, the old lady stood staring blankly over empty stretches of wet sand to the rusted girders and defiantly clean, blue and white kiosks of the pier. Strings of grey lightbulbs linked the two, looping their way down the promenade and back; bare sockets and the odd seagull breaking the pattern.

Inside the bar, the sole occupant drained the shot glass he’d nursed the last hour, got up and left for his room. Passing reception, he performed his catch-phrase skip, lurch and leer at the receptionist. She flashed back her customer-service smile; the kind that vanishes without trace. Barry sighed and started up the stairs, only to come to a halt surrounded by a sudden stream of girls. Romanian - he’d seen their coach arrive. Their feet barely touched the carpet. Their chatter lost in
the height of the grand staircase, the troupe flit by oblivious to his presence and were swallowed up in the hotel corridors in seconds. Barry sighed again. Three hours… he had another whisky shot riding on his audience not outnumbering the tables this evening.

Upstairs in room 516, the bathroom ceiling collapsed in a cloud of plaster. By the ballroom, a wall of white tile clattered to a cubicle floor. In 429, Barry poked a finger into the rotten sash window and sighed for the third time. Current spat down a string of lightbulbs and tripped at an empty socket; the Grand Old Lady settled further into her foundations.