The sky is as blue as it will ever be. Over the sea the sun is as bright as a summer evening, but in the wrong place. On the beach, it's as cold as a mild winter morning. Today is unmistakably autumn.

A faiground ride on the Palace Pier goes upandown, roundandround, but from the promenade I can't tell if anyone is riding. The ruined West Pier looks like a constructivist sculpture lit from France.

The beach is half full - well, compared to a Summer's day, a tenth full - of families and lovers huddling. The sea is too calm to raise passion, but there are several dingies sailing between the shingle and the horizon - usually the sea here is boatless, anti-climactic. For once, I let myself feelunabivalently good about living in Brighton.

But what's beyond it? As a start, I look out towards where the Isle of Wight should be. Invisible, unless I close my eyes and summon a mirage.