Chips with Hitchcock

Hot sunny day here in Brighton. Sat typing at my desk for a few hours in my dressing gown before I decided that I had to be doing something a bit more physical. Spent a happy couple of hours scraping flaking paint from the windows downstairs, and giving them a new lick of paint.

In the afternoon made off to my usual cafe where, supping an Americano, I had an excellent idea for one of the last poems to go in the collection. Excited by this, I hurried home to work on this again for a couple of hours.

When Lorraine came we decided to sit on the pebbly beach, in the orangey pink evening light, and eat some fish and chips. This sounds idyllic but we were surrounded by Hitchockian seagulls beading us with their mad yellow eyes, and crowding too close. We'd already seen a few minutes earlier a seagull swoop down to a table and grab a half-eaten pizza and, finding it too big to flap off with, tore wildly at its cheesy topping.

There are two tribes in Brighton, as I have previously stated, and the gulls are glimpsing a dominant future.