Standing on the sand, staring out into the cold North Sea, wind whipping around him. John pulled up his scarf and adjusted his hat.  The beach was deserted, unsurprisingly for an early morning in February. The sea lapping at the frozen sand. Everything looked grey, the sea, the sand, the sky. The only thing to be seen for miles and mile, a row of wind turbines and a couple of container ships out on the horizon.  Even the town looked grey, with the concrete of the sea walls and the rank of boarded up shops behind. The sound of the sea and the squawk of the occasional gull the only sign of any movement.  How had things got so bad?