My god, you gotta love Bray beach. In the summertime that is. January is a whole different kettle of fish. Icy wind that could cut you through like a sharp knife to butter and lashings of rain to match it as well. I’m not here by choice or by chance. Nowhere left in the town to sleep. All the best spots have been taken. All the good temporary bedding from the large supermarket bins has been took. So all I have left to fall back on tonight was my trusty rain proof sheet. But forty five minutes ago, my cover was blown off by what I could only describe as a mini hurricane which seemed to search me out at the back of the public toilets. Nothing fucking public about them. Shouldn’t be locked at night if they’re for the public. And that’s what I am. Maybe not like most…