In Florida, the beaches are swarming with little mollusks called coquinas. They're about the size of your fingernail, and they spend their entire lives digging fruitlessly into the sand (which, it's worth noting, is composed mainly of the crushed   bodies of their grandparents), only to be washed up and exposed again with the next crashing wave. Despite their gaily-coloured exteriors, this undoubtedly makes coquinas the Existentialists of the seashell world, puffing on extremely ickle cigarettes and groaning about the lack of Choice in society. Sartre has, I'm sure, been reincarnated as several thousand of the little bastards. CC

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