Ghost Holiday Village

Well, I went to Pagham this weekend. What a strange place! The beach was weird- very second-world-war-ish, looking like a garden with uniformly smooth pebbles and succulent and prickly grey-green plants planted at tasteful intervals.
We were wandering round all these little deserted streets of holiday homes in various states of disrepair, imagining what ghosts lived there (there were very few real live people). Ghosts of scoutmasters, retired naval officers with big moustaches an tattoos, little old ladies in twinsets and pearls- there was a house for everyone, some completely tumbledown, some that looked as though they had been transplated direct from the Algarve. We were sure that all the inhabitants were old, rickety spectres, anyway, until a very healthy-looking blonde woman swept into one of the driveways in a 4x4.
Oh well, the game was a larf anyway, and the fish'n'chips were perfect. This photograph is of a garden that obviously belongs to a ghost with far too much leisure time; however, it's better to be an obsessive hedge-clipper rather than berating your retired ghost wife, I suppose.