Wading through the flattened White Lightning cans, kerbside oil slicks, cast-off gnomes and Zimmer frames, plus, of course, the usual sundry barker's nests in varying states of decay, on the way to my local shop, I pass a mummified frog.
It's a new one on me, but in a way, I feel it's a positive sign.
I take it as a metaphor for Ramsgate. One kiss from some decent inward investor like me, and the whole place will come back to life like a beautiful princess from her slumber.
Which makes me, erm, a dead frog. Er, not quite sure I've worked this one out properly.