Deja Vu?

A few weeks later, I arrived at the pier, having spent hours jumping on and off buses, tubes and trains. My shoulders and neck were stiff and sore from lugging two heavy bags around, and I wasn't in the best of the moods. Take the town, for instance. Strong smell. Humid, sticky weather. Grey: sand, skies, metal monstrosity holding up the pier. Seagulls.

But it wasn't just the surroundings. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I got a sense that I'd visited the town before, even though I knew I hadn't. Everything seemed familiar. Each turning I took. The buildings.  The layout of the town centre. Tourist Information. The pier, especially that horrible pylon-structure.  

I reached the Grand Theatre situated near the end of the promenade walk, a huge bulking building, all dirty white on the exterior, with a dome-like roof. Inside, I heard some amazing piano playing.  Pounding octaves coming from somewhere within the old theatre, tearing through the foyer area, like a gust of wind. As if the music was alive or something.  It calmed me, even though it was ferocious.  

'Wow, who's that?' I said to the smiling girl behind the reception desk.

'Philippa doing a quick practice,' the girl said. 'She got here this morning. You'll meet her later.'