With a keen desperation to be elsewhere I found myself on Brighton seafront, wishing again that I was a smoker. Despite the weather report saying eight degrees and my calendar shouting: it’s January, I went.
Struck by wind and by beggars I foolishly thought the pier might offer some shelter, but the doors were locked shut and another photographer smiled at me – how naive to think we might catch something besides a cold in Brighton in January. So I headed along the front, cold and missing July, only to see padlocks and chains and for sale signs. Brighton, I’m afraid, is now closed to visitors. The tarot racket doesn’t make too much in winter, and the amusement arcade shutters only let me see a slither of games we might have played. Crane machines that robbed me blind and laughing one August, but that now betrayed me. In my need to be entertained I have found myself only disappointed, only assured that Brighton is still closed.
Until March, in any case.