Friday afternoon proceeded well until 5pm when my computer crashed and I lost my afternoon's work. Hurriedly left before I killed myself, and headed off to Brighton. The train had four carriages only and so was very cramped, but fortunately I had a seat.
Trotsky swiped at me through the banisters in greeting as I entered Anna and Anton's house, but one sight of the catfood brought a rapid change of mood. After catsitting duties performed, I nipped off down to Seven Dials and scored what turned out to be a vile takeaway curry while talking to my mum on my mobile. Opted for an earlyish night and discovered that Trotsky had already claimed half the bed.
I had vivid dreams about a tiger during the night, which I think is a good omen, and nothing at all to do with Trotsky scowling at me from the duvet all night.
Saturday morning, and I decided to walk. Posted some stuff to do with buying the flat into the solicitor. Then ate a hearty breakfast by the sea and ended up walking what my pedometer told me was 16km along the seafront and around and about in Brighton. Felt like I needed time to myself and a bit of exercise, and this was a great way of doing so. The next day I walked another 10km or so.
Nothing beats walking for processing lots of thoughts. Walked near to where Tim and Rosa lived in Hove before they died of aids. Reminded how Brighton is one of those places that has crossed my path several times in my life, and it seems inevitable that I should wind up living there at some point.
But for this weekend I felt like a tourist, walking past beach huts being lovingly painted in gaudy colours, wandering on the remaining pier (which vibrates horribly when the fun fair machines of torture are going full blast), milling about in the lanes buying second hand books and a teeshirt, and watching people fishing from the old harbour wall. Saw one guy catch half a dozen mackerel in five minutes. Had visions of myself doing the same soon, and reliving my childhood fishing off the white rock in Guernsey.
Sunday evening saw Anna Anton and baby Klaudia return after a gruelling journey from Manchester. And we set about drinking beer and ordering more curry. Meanwhile Trotsky bit Anna in the ankle in a very premeditated way, and I felt compelled to explain that I hadn't been abusing it or anything. That off my chest, we ate and listened to Anton's records on his beloved deck.
Decided to stay overnight, as the curry was delayed, and the beer had made me feel tired. Suddenly sleep seemed exceedingly big and clever...
Trotsky swiped at me through the banisters in greeting as I entered Anna and Anton's house, but one sight of the catfood brought a rapid change of mood. After catsitting duties performed, I nipped off down to Seven Dials and scored what turned out to be a vile takeaway curry while talking to my mum on my mobile. Opted for an earlyish night and discovered that Trotsky had already claimed half the bed.
I had vivid dreams about a tiger during the night, which I think is a good omen, and nothing at all to do with Trotsky scowling at me from the duvet all night.
Saturday morning, and I decided to walk. Posted some stuff to do with buying the flat into the solicitor. Then ate a hearty breakfast by the sea and ended up walking what my pedometer told me was 16km along the seafront and around and about in Brighton. Felt like I needed time to myself and a bit of exercise, and this was a great way of doing so. The next day I walked another 10km or so.
Nothing beats walking for processing lots of thoughts. Walked near to where Tim and Rosa lived in Hove before they died of aids. Reminded how Brighton is one of those places that has crossed my path several times in my life, and it seems inevitable that I should wind up living there at some point.
But for this weekend I felt like a tourist, walking past beach huts being lovingly painted in gaudy colours, wandering on the remaining pier (which vibrates horribly when the fun fair machines of torture are going full blast), milling about in the lanes buying second hand books and a teeshirt, and watching people fishing from the old harbour wall. Saw one guy catch half a dozen mackerel in five minutes. Had visions of myself doing the same soon, and reliving my childhood fishing off the white rock in Guernsey.
Sunday evening saw Anna Anton and baby Klaudia return after a gruelling journey from Manchester. And we set about drinking beer and ordering more curry. Meanwhile Trotsky bit Anna in the ankle in a very premeditated way, and I felt compelled to explain that I hadn't been abusing it or anything. That off my chest, we ate and listened to Anton's records on his beloved deck.
Decided to stay overnight, as the curry was delayed, and the beer had made me feel tired. Suddenly sleep seemed exceedingly big and clever...
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