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This place, a dirty concrete beast that only washes when it rains and smells of wino piss in drains or overheated streets, which meets the sea to dip its tongue and spew a tide of rubbish to the waves, a noisy armadillo filled with human fleas that thrive upon its armoured back, to fill each crack and notch of skin, existing on the heart that beats within its roaring chest, and yet for all its whistling taxi noise, it has a faded pizza scented charm which does not rest except for four am when all is calm, the time I like this grand old girl the best.
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