Gone Fishin

This must be the Thing To Do in these parts.  The Rebellious Thing.  The I-Don’t-Care Thing.  Three young men, just boys really but you can’t call them “boys”.  Hangin’.  Just Hangin’.  On the end of the pier.  Not a glamorously nasty seaside pier like Brighton Rock, a proper Make-the-Habour-Safe sort of pier, complete with barnacled old anglers.  They’d discarded their dead cans of Carlsberg on the steps and were carrying the remainder away: the bare-torso-ed one with sunburnt inverse muscle-vest pattern, the one in the shiny white trainers and dirty jeans and the one repeatedly picking his nose and wiping it on the sea wall.