The Newbrick Bay Hotel stands before the filthiest water ever to be found in a British bay. Not only is its colour that of the hardest brown, it is also home to no living life whatsoever. No life could exist in such muck. As a good wine leaves a glaze on the bowl of its glass, the Newbrick Bay leaves dirt onto its surrounding sands. Four festering paddle boats are tied up to a small pier originally used by the hotel, their white paint tainted by green mold. Some twenty years ago these boats would have been in use every summer’s morning by the wealthiest names in South Western Britain. The Newbrick Bay Hotel once carried such prestige that its one hundred and twenty five rooms would need to be booked no less than a year in advance during peak seasons, which was every season for the Newbrick. Now, the hotel stands in tatters. Its upkeep could not be afforded after the pollution of the bay. Business slowed and faded until staff were moved on and money was wasted on trying to rebuild its repute. The Newbrick Bay Hotel now caters for one, Mr D. Harp. Desmond Harp has worked for the hotel since its erection in 1919 and since then has lived by a strict routine. On a Monday morning, Desmond awakes at seven thirty. He fixes his daily attire, his clay backed hair and makes sure to cover every inch of his tattoos, wearing large sovereign rings to hide the ink on his fingers. By eight he is ready to go to work, starting with the kitchen. The gas is turned on, the hotplates, heat lamps, extraction system. The temperatures of the fridges are checked and recorded and one of the freezers is emptied for weekly defrost. Desmond will fix himself a light breakfast of eggs, ham and toast before moving into the reception. The booking diary is checked along with the weekly rota, though these logs have been empty for a very long time. The front desk is polished and the flowers are watered. He briefly sweeps the marble entrance and hoovers the stairs arching around the main lobby onto the restaurant floor. Before attending to the restaurant, it is routine for Desmond Harp to exercise and so he swims in the filthiest bay for up to half an hour. Here Desmond can prepare himself for the day, here Desmond can find himself, beneath the green.