Nine postcards from Brighton

i

Saturday morning. I am upstairs at the Kemp Town Bookshop browsing the notebooks and wondering if I should buy one to jot down things that I think about putting in the blog. I eventually decide against it on the basis that it’s a sure fire way to guarantee my blog dries up and I spend my days carting round a decorous yet empty notebook.

It’s a pretty, peaceful spot overlooking the street with a little café and tables. Someone comes up the stairs with a dog and orders a cappuccino. A few other people start congregating. It looks like it could be a meeting of a writers’ group or something. I start fondly imagining that I too could live a life like this even though I know it’s highly unlikely.

“That’s a lovely dog,” says the woman behind the counter, “what’s his name?”

“Zorro.”

“No, really? I have a dog called Zorro too!”

ii

Sunday morning. All the Nissan Figaros assemble along Madeira Drive. There are sixteen in one place, more than I’ve ever seen. I climb up the steps to get a bird’s eye view of them all. Everyone is wearing Easter bonnets (as part of a competition) – the whole thing is fantastically silly and wonderfully comforting and makes you feel glad to be English and therefore fundamentally a bit bonkers.

Later on we head to the Long Man at Wilmington, a 70 metre tall hill figure. The drive round the coast involves a convoy of six Figaros and some beautiful views. I have been allowed to commandeer the stereo and am playing Kings of Convenience, perfect Sunday morning music. The song “Know-How” strikes up as we go down an especially gorgeous tree-lined lane and I know I will always associate the song with that from now on.

Kings of Convenience - Know-How

iii

Friday night. We are out for dinner with Rik and Laura at the Gingerman, a truly lovely restaurant. They bring out freshly baked minature loaves as we look at the menu, struggling in vain to find one dish that looks nicer than all the others.

As we get to dessert the conversation turns to the fact that Laura has been out with a man called Eric, a man called Derek, another man called Derek (known as Derek #2 as he immediately followed Derek #1) and is now going out with Rik. I speculate that her next boyfriend will have to be called Ik. Kelly suggests that she should consider moving into dating Vikings next - possibly a nice young man called Wulfric or Aelfric with his own horned helmet and a flagon of mead.

I tell them a story about my friend DG (immortalised here for the uninitiated) who once had a threesome with her boyfriend and her ex-boyfriend which culminated in her watching her boyfriend giving her ex a blow job. I load olive tapenade onto my last parmesan biscuit as we speculate on whether Laura missed out on a similar Derek/Derek combo.

“No,” I say, “I’ve met Derek #2 and he strikes me as a man who’d rather fuck his own mum than go anywhere near another man.”

Rik howls with laughter. Laura cringes. Kelly gives me that look I know only too well that says Oh no, not again.

iv

Saturday afternoon. It has been raining on and off all afternoon and suddenly erupts into a hailstorm of Biblical proportions. Kelly speculates that it will be raining toads next. We shelter under the arches and the rain dies off and the sun struggles to come out. The inky sky and the sea smudge together in a way that makes it difficult to work out where one ends and the other one begins. I wander along the beach taking a variety of unsatisfactory photographs. The pier stands out in the gloom, all tackiness and glitz though none of the lights seem to be on.

Then the sun comes out and the beach gleams like an alien landscape. You can imagine them filming old episodes of Doctor Who here if they couldn’t use the usual quarry.

v

Friday night, the taxi driver picks us up to take us into town. Brighton taxi drivers can be an eccentric and chatty bunch but this one is a grumpy looking cove with a beard. Instantly I feel some affinity with him. He’s playing classical music in the car, something which could only happen in Brighton. From the back seat I can see the touch screen of his whizzy in-car digital radio. He has six pre-set stations. Five of them are all set to Radio 3. The last one is set to Radio 4 – you know, for when he gets bored. That’s how highbrow he is.

He also picks us up on Saturday evening. “Oh, of course, he’s playing Classic FM.” says Kelly. In the rear view mirror I can see him scowling at that remark as if in pain.

vi

Saturday lunchtime. We take Laura to the splendid Bill’s Produce Store for lunch. My steak sandwich comes on giant slabs of delicious sourdough and my favourite bit of all is the roasted vegetables which is simultaneously reassuring and a little frightening. Laura orders the full breakfast and I find I don't envy her, despite the crispy streaky bacon and pair of chubby sausages. I find myself admiring her grilled tomato with a smear of pesto. When did I start enjoying roasted vegetables? What is happening to me? Laura is really happy and having a wonderful 2009. We all joke about having a group hug round the table and then, magically, against all of our better judgments it actually happens.

“It must look like we’re skydiving.” I say.

vii

Friday afternoon. We are wandering round the North Laine going from one boutique shop to another. I spot a manky looking sign saying “Model Dwelling” and am tickled by the idea that , behind this unprepossessing front, Brighton could be harbouring a set of flats like the house out of Zoolander. I get my camera out, move closer to the sign and the intercom to take a picture. As I do this I am completely oblivious to the guy walking past me to get into the building. My photo taken, I turn round to catch a glimpse of him. He doesn’t look much like a model to me.

viii

Saturday, late afternoon. Before heading back to the hotel we duck into a newsagent just off the seafront to buy a newspaper. As Kelly pays at the till I see that someone has made a terrible mistake in terms of product placement. Take a Break and Women’s Weekly, both fine periodicals if you want to knit a nutritious supper or hear heartwarming stories about children with nasty illnesses, have an interloper in their midst. A publication which I assume appeals to a very different demographic. Kelly takes just long enough to pay that I can get a photograph.

ix

Sunday lunchtime. Some of the Figaroons are trekking up to the Long Man for a better look. The wiser, lazier or (in my case) plain unfitter are having a natter in the car park. I am talking to Nicola about my blog, she says she particularly liked this entry right at the start when Mikey and I are speculating about hand crumbed fish fingers.

“I know,” I say, “it’s ridiculous. What do they expect people to use, a crumbing machine? And let’s just say I had invented a crumbing machine. There’s no way I’d use it to crumb bits of fish. I’d have more ambition than that, I’d use it to crumb… (pause) my mum. That’s right, I’d crumb my mum. Why make fishfingers when you can turn your own parents into gigantic goujons, that’s what I’d like to know.”

“You’re going to put that in your blog, aren’t you?” says Nicola. “I’d like to be in your blog, just peripherally mind you.”

Yes Nicola, I am.