Hove Actually.

Pink sox, blue jeans, grey t-shirt and a purple sweater, my attire for the day at the seaside.
I wear very old trainers that are falling apart but are the most comfortable of footlingwear.
I drove through the falling leaves, arriving in Brighton by lunchtime. I parked the car in Hove actually.
It took me twenty minutes to navigate the telephone app to pay for parking. Pressing buttons and ignoring the robot on the other end, I finally succeeded in paying for two hours without smashing my phone in frustration. Then I had lunch.
‘Maroccos’ is an Italian restaurant near St.Aubyns Mansions where Clara Butt and Vest Tilley lived. Both Music Hall entertainers.
The restaurant is narrow. Friendly, warm waitresses, banquettes and a fridge load of Italian ice cream.
I ordered black sphagetti.
Spaghetti coloured by squid Ink and 6 gigantic prawns served in a soup plate. A small empty bowl for the shells, several napkins, salt and pepper and a sachet with a lemon scented wet wipe to clean the fishy smell after the feast.
I couldn’t finish it all. The black ink stained the bowl, the table and my fingers, which had been knee deep in prawn perelopods and eyeballs.
I had a can of Pellagrino lemonade and left at 2.00.
I stumbled down the steps to the pebbled beach.
Grey sky, grey channel. Grey into the distance.
The sun clawed its way through the clouds and after twenty minutes there was a strip of sunlight on the water.
I breathed in the sea air and watched a woman and her dog brave the cool waves. She stood, screamed when the water hit her bum, shook, like her dog, and waited for the next slap. I was colder than she was.
I climbed up the steps and sat on a bench. dedicated to Jerome from Cynthia. The second plaque, on the back of the bench was dedicated to Cynthia wife of Jerome. She’d joined him years later. The plaque said Cynthia, ‘medium, and clairvoyant’.
I laid my head back on the top of the bench and tried to manifest Cynth, but she was having none of it.
Back to the car and drove to the top of Southover street. In and out of cars, over speed bumps and past brightly painted houses. Collected two plates from my granddaughter, and drove home
Sucking on sherbet lemons and listening to Dvorack.
It’s funny how sweeties bring up memories.
I got stuck in a swing, aged 5 (thats me not the swing) whilst sucking on a gob stopper. It caught in the back of my throat. My mother was alerted, pulled me out of the wooden contraception and slapped me on the back. The gob stopper dislodged and flew out.
I’ve never sucked on a huge ball since.
Then there was Jellybabygate. Eating a black one and sicking up my entire stomach. Weirdly the hospital recommend jelly babies when you have a diabetic hypo!!!
Not me mate, although I do have bags of the fuckers – or should I say suckers – scattered over the house.
I have a tin of barley sugars in the car and a chocolate box on the piano filled with sweet meats.
Humgugs and toffees.
I do, however, love a slab of Turkish delight.
Rahat Al-Holqum, which I discovered whilst reading Lawrence Durrell’s ‘The Alexandria Quartet’. I read and reread the first page and never progressed past Rahat Al-Holqum but never forgot the sweeties on the fist page.
Not that sweets have ever really been my comfort food, as the child of exiled Russians I’m more prone to a dumpling or a spicy sausage. Although each Christmas my father would bring home a box of assorted treats from the market he worked in.
Your parents fuck you up don’t they? Trying to eat a treat without getting bombarded with insults about being a fat pig, was never a route to go down. Better to eat fruit pastilles on the quiet and get fat alone in your bedroom.
Powdery Bon Bons have a place in my heart although now I’m terrified the toffee will pull out the last of my teeth.
When the old git and I met we discovered Dime bars in Malmö, a chewy/coconutty confecion that was as sweet as our young romance.
I now buy them from the garage in industrial numbers. They take a long time to suck and live in his drawer next to screwdrivers, tape measures, superglue and old keys.
Sherbet lemons are not what they were. Time it was after a couple of sucks and the sherbet was released onto the tongue. A lovely fizzy surprise. Now there’s hardly any sherbet so the suck is not worth the effort, they snap and its a boring boiled sweet without the excitement of the sherbet .
Progress is necessary but not at the expense of the fizz. If it ain’t broke dont fix it.
It’s now 6.0’clock. Thursday nights entertainment includes the News and a box set.
The ozone was helpful today, and for Sam the rudest of bloggers, I’m not feeling sorry for myself, just adjusting to a new phase in my life. The old lady who sits alone at lunchtime in an Italian restaurant slurping on squid ink and splattering her surroundings with crustaceous crap and an inappropriately large tip.
If, dear Sam, you don’t like me or my blogs don’t fucking read them.
There, that said I’m going to sit by the fire.