bank holiday and a six pack of beer

What a pleasure to find Brighton lit up and blue skied; I walked down towards the sea through St. Anne's Well Gardens earlier, pausing at moments to stand stock-still in the sun, as if being re-charged, and watched a puppy tearing through the flower-beds, scattering stems, petals, spring bulbs and clods of soil. His tennis ball, still too big for his mouth, thudded over to my feet and I threw it for him - it was soggy and stringy, much-gummed, urgh.

I'm picturing all those people on hot trains from London, heading for the beach. I know that Brighton is a seaside resort but you forget that, day to day, thinking it a town like any other, albeit one with a wayward gait. Bank Holidays remind you that it's something else altogether. I always feel ever so slightly like a party-host; glad that the evening proved popular, but a bit piqued that so many people turned up.