In Folkstone upon the rooftops there is an upper world harassed by seagulls, their endless squawking gets under the skin making one constantly irate, if not outright belligerent. It was up there that I built the funeral pyre, struggling as my skin was lashed red by the salty winds, up there in the domain of cats and birds, upon the roof terrace of my old friend Mike, (who was down the Jobcentre Plus signing on).
I took the moldy old teddy bear and placed it upon the small pile of kindling. I felt exultant as the fire consumed the ancient stuffing and added an acrid, smoky flavour to the briny air. A hundred years of family history annihilated so easily, leaving just the harsh vapour blowing to nothing and the scornful dirge of the gulls.