Yesteryear's maximum-ninety holiday cottaged capacity's crisp morning air, and rewardingly wholesome appetising bufet breakfasts, that had previously been anxiously awaited holiday makers from years before, had now grown like a giant tenacious virus, infecting eighteen times its original maximum size. What used to treat and would have energised the well-to-do from all over the country, and abroad, with its picturesque natural flowered landscape and manicured gardens of the "Honeybush" members-only country club and holiday cottages, now housed long rows of khaki-coloured porta-loos, soldiered-up next to one another, and the further near pegged-down army tents to separate the almost one-hundred-and-sixty dozen hungry and desperately hopeless families, that had fled the rest of the country. These were the fortunate ones, that'd made it out alive and with minimal Radiodermatitis, as entry-ticket into town. Between the emergency camp that was set up, and the ocean, for no more than three minutes, the sun glimmered over the rows of leaky tin roofs of old council houses - then went into hiding behind the tall concrete monoliths which housed the more fortunate ones who'd still feel and see the dimmish morning sun on the other side of the twenty blocks of flats. On the eastern apron of the residential suburb, the maize of forgotten-looking factories of Radium's industrial district. As she looked down, she tried to feed her compulsive disorder, counting in five's, the used oxygen masks which had littered the potholed main road bordering the factory workers' three bedroom homes, from the mountain of dented and paint-peeled diesel drums, at the entrance to the expansive shipyard.