From Bronte to Brighton

There’s a place on my way to and from work that smells, momentarily, like the undergrowth you walk past on the way down to the ocean pool at Bronte on a hot evening as twilight falls. I want to say it floods me with nostalgia, but it’s fainter than that, just a little reminder of a lovely thing that I’m aching for … ah the ocean.

Speaking of – we went to Brighton the other day. The sea there is different. Huge slabs of opaque ‘sea green’ like the colour on a Dulux paint chip chart. Heaving and rattling onto the shale beach. Not welcoming. But impressive. Walk out on the pier and look over and wow, you’re out pretty deep already. It looks a bit dangerous, you can’t see what’s under the surface. There’s no barbed wire or anything but who would jump?

I wanted to go on a ride. It seemed like the ideal place – beachside shabby chic. It’s Brighton Pier, Brighton Rock. But Isco said no. Sometimes I wonder if I married someone who is slightly non-adventurous. Odd to suggest, after Trans-Siberianing it… but there you have it. My brothers would have jumped at the chance for a rollercoaster ride. Even the Log Ride was rejected. The Dodgem Cars were considered but it just seemed like a cop out after that. I think I was secretly hoping that someone would dare me to ride the huge scary upside-downy one with them. I would have. It was that kind of day.