During the bus journey from the station the weather spelt out the portents for my destination. Unabatedly gloomy.
Arriving late, sweating from the two mile hike in humid conditions, and with a thirst on, I dump my stuff at the hostel, bid a cheery guten abend to my fellow guests and make a bolt for the local Oirish tavern.
The gloom has been replaced by heavy spots of rain at intermittent intervals. The thunder begins to sound in the distant. Lightning follows shortly after, illuminating the coastal town in Luciferian shades. Then bats. Loads of fruit bats scrambled to the air like a squadron of the damned adding to the chaotic scene.

Finishing my Caaaaald One before South Africa’s cricketers finish off their New Zealand counterparts on the telly, I set off for a pizza. It’s gone from the gathering apocalypse to Hades in the matter of a schooner.

I leap over the torrents coming down the hill, ducking in and out of diminishing dry spots until I reach Domino’s. I order extra locusts and frogs with mine to go with the Biblical downpour outside. Sprinting back, being careful to avoid the horsemen, to the hostel. I crack straight on with my soggy pizza to the consternation of my fellow diners. My espadrilles are shot, my clothes are sopping but my hunger is pleasantly sated. I reflect on the visions of pure evil I saw out there.

No, not the imminent end of the world. Something much more sinister than that. The prevalence of roundabouts and grid systems. The rows and rows of featureless, characterless, multi-storied but monotonous apartments and houses.

This can only mean one thing. It strikes me like a hammer horror blow.

I’ve unwittingly chosen to spend a night in Milton Keynes On Sea.