Brighton - new life

Life has changed a lot in the last six months. I have moved cities, moved jobs, acquired a furry son by the name of Mr Cheeky and most evenings end with a lovely walk on the beach with my partner Oliver before bedtime. If the sun hasn't gone down yet, we also like getting our beach tent out and waiting for the sunset, sometimes with picnic tea. Looking out from the tent in a quiet spot it looks like our own private beach in addition to protecting against the wind and sun.

For some reason, I always thought I'd have to be old to live by the sea and there are certainly an alarming number of funeral directors and crematoriums in the area but Brighton is no sleepy seaside town and not for nothing is it known as London-On-Sea.

Year round, there is always something going on, such as a skateboarding dog, a roller skating man in a tutu, stand-up poets on the beach. Or even a dog eating seaweed (pictured), never mind the second largest Fringe Festival next to Edinburgh and all the culture one could wish for including no shortage of poetry gigs, comedy gigs, art exhibitions and jazz nights the rest of the year. We have also joined The Regency Society which seeks to preserve the USP of Brighton, its regency spa heritage. In a funny sort of way my move has also been a homecoming as my mother grew up in Brighton so I have known the city and been part-Brightonion all my life. It is sheer co-incidence that my future partner turned out to live in the area and love it too, offering the perfect excuse to relocate.

This weekend we are on a stand-up comedy course, the finest in the country, and attended by participants far and wide. We are not expecting to become the next Jimmy Carr or anything, we just want to hone our performing skills generally. I will leave you with a few images of my new life...

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'You've Got That Cat in Bed, Haven't You?'

'You've got that cat in bed haven't you?' calls the accusatory voice up the stairs.
'Nooo.' you lie, desperately trying to stop Katmandu from squirming under the bed sheets.
'Oh yes you have!' insists the voice. He's not down here. You must have.'
'No, I haven't.' you plead. 'Honest.'
'Hrmph! I know your brand of honesty!'
The ominous tread upon the stair. The amber eyes glowering unimpressed beneath the bedsheets. The bedroom doorknob turning slowly in the fashion of a Hitchcock film.
Katmandu sensing he is about to be forced to keep utterly still snuggled against your chest grows jittery, rebellion gleaming in his saucer eyes. The long shadow looms over the bed.
Katmandu starts squirming downwards and tickling your nightshirt-bare legs with his fur. You try not to giggle while worrying about possible claw-work if he doesn’t get his way. Suddenly he makes a dash for it, finding an escape chink in the bedsheets and a thump is heard on the bedroom floor.
‘I knew it!’ exclaims your bedtime jailer triumphantly. ‘Your foot just moved all the way to the end of the bed and jumped out of it.’
‘I’ve got restless legs’ you protest, moving a leg quickly and unfeasibly under the bedclothes by way of unconvincing illustration. But Katmandu has betrayed you by scuttling under the bed and making a break for the door with a final miaow to indicate his displeasure at the ignominy.
'He knows he's not allowed up here, so you've got no excuses! He could have fleas or anything! One more incident like this and there'll be no pocket money for a certain someone on Saturday, young lady.'
Your mother turns toward the door, but in the half-rays of the yellow landing light, you could swear you detect a smirk.

How many times this little scene played out in my childhood from the ages of about 3 to 15, with only slight amendments to both script and cat! Does anyone else have an oft-repeated little childhood scenario they would like to share?

Photo by

Duck-filled Catty Puss

Some kitty porn for my fellow cat-bores (taken in my parent's garden recently). Not that either Tiggy or Ginger was about to indulge me by posing in a daisychain collar even as long as my shutterspeed took to capture their humiliation! (do you think the Cat's Protection League can prosecute for enforced cat hippydom?). Saw a great book recently called 'Stuff on My Cat' where someone had gathered together photographs of cats wearing all manner of weird and wonderful garb unwittingly - a near-impossible feat considering the single-mindedness and uptake speed of most cats! Sometimes I think even people who profess not to like cats must surely admire their independence and the way they'll only do things when *they* want to and it suits them, no matter that they are just as dependent on you for food as a more slavish dog! Though I suppose when pounce comes to shove, cats are probably better at hunting than most dogs if they have to. Actually I love all furry critters equally, but stray cats would always find their way to my family's house for some reason and sneak into our affections before we could stop them, never mind get round to taking them to an animal shelter. Can there be anything finer than the smell of a cat's head I wonder? Or a pneumatic purr making your ears tickle with vibration as they snuggle up to your neck while you're on the phone.
'Damp dog by a fireside', I hear you cry!

Off to Captain a canal boat for a week now, but back soon, so don't go away!