kurrana & the wolfnotes

It's always nice to be taken by surprise with a band, as I was with Kurran & The Wolfnotes, who I'd never heard of before I saw them co-headling The Hope in Brighton with Exlovers in October 2009. Theirs is an enthusiastic, high-octane blend of UK indie and folky Americana, and their songs are extremely memorable. Debut single 'Whatabitch' is available to pre-order now, and the following clip - which shows them playing 'Thanks A Lot Noah' does a lot to demonstrate their promise.



Click here for another video.

joe columbo's smoke glass

The following is one of many interesting design projects I looked at while at an Engineering conference in Budapest recently. The design, by Joe Columbo, makes use of negative space to design the 'Smoke glass'.

joe colombo - ‘smoke glass’, 1964
the sculptural shape of this unusual glass speaks for itself. its unique stem invites you to grasp the form. the name of the design was born from its function: with the balance between the forefinger and the thumb it is possible to hold both the glass and a cigarette with the same hand.

the cylindrical form is in perfect harmony with the foot.

the ‘double’, which are two glasses in one make it possible to turn the glass over for a sip of water or aperitif.

More pictures and info here.

noah's misery

My impression – I may be wrong - is that the new Noah and The Whale record has underwhelmed quite a few people. It feels like the fans who liked the upbeat arrangements of their debut album are bewildered by the introverted, melancholic seam running through The First Days Of Spring. Equally, the people who understandably took against the contrived, Wes Anderson-influenced trappings of the band’s image and first record have not been convinced by the earnest, mature stylings they’ve followed it up with. Accompanying the new album with a full-length DVD film may be their biggest mistake; a brave, admirable artistic endeavour which nevertheless feels desperately pretentious.

Anyway – as you’ll know if you’ve spent some serious time with The First Days of Spring, it’s an excellent record; a big improvement on Peaceful The World Lays Me Down and a really rewarding, emotional account of what sounds like a pretty fucking awful year in the life of the band’s songwriter, Charlie Fink – whose break-up with Laura Marling doesn’t just dominate this set of songs, it positively defines them. On ‘Stranger’, my favourite song, he sounds positively wretched, musing on the sense of shame he feels after a night of casual sex with a new acquaintance. It’s a peculiar topic (for a man, particularly) to write about, but it’s oddly moving – once one has reconciled Charlie’s lyrical approach with a natural aversion to cliché.

My first reaction to the set of songs on The First Days of Spring was that Fink had written an extraordinary, brooding, lilting set of instrumentals but been unable to find words to express his heartache without resorting to a set of anodyne, stock-phrases to voice his anguish. That may well be the case – there’s an interminable amount of cliché here. But there’s something more complex going on here too.

A year or so ago I was confronted by a very strange, emotional experience. In a venue in Hove, surrounded by my friends, I watched a couple of musicians perform a song for a shared friend which was informed by a sense of loss and regret and love. It was a completely beautiful, spine-tingling moment. Yet I mused afterwards that if I had heard the same song on the radio, unaware of the context, I would probably have written it off as mush; as mawkish, middle-of-the-road stuff. All of a sudden, an alarm went off in my head. All my life I have written off songs with unimaginative or sentimental lyrics as ‘meaningless’, without really given much thought to the fact that they might, despite their failings, be essentially truthful, heartfelt and honest.

Listening to The First Days of Spring now, it’s impossible to argue that Charlie’s lyrics are not predictable and clichéd – and yet something about the completeness of the narrative, the tone of his voice, and the sheer brilliance of his arrangements, persuades me that they’re entirely real, entirely true. When Charlie sings about "songs for the broken hearted", or needing "your light in my life", I think, why adorn these despairing sentiments with beautiful embellishments if the plain sentiments get to the heart of the matter? In as much as I believe that anyone's heart can be broken, I don’t doubt that Charlie’s truly was.

And of course, 'Stranger' is just particularly pretty – built, like, most of the record, around simple, ringing, circular guitar lines played on a clean-toned electric guitar, and rich with Charlie’s heavy, regretful vocal. “Last night I slept with a stranger for the first time since you’ve gone / Regretfully lying naked, I reflect on what I’ve done”. It even contains what I hope is a gag; the line where, having described his lover’s naked body entwined with his, he croons, “I’m a fox” – before completing the line “...trapped in the headlights”. If it isn’t a gag, it’s still funny.

And then, just past the half way mark, the song changes emphasis and a still, clear, piano line emerges, accompanied by muted acoustic strumming and some gentle vocal harmonies. “You know in a year”, Charlie starts to sing, “it’s gonna be better”. The riff starts to circle. “You know in a year, I’m gonna be happy”. As it shifts pace, it slides magically from tortured to reflective to uplifting; it’s Charlie reassuring himself, calming himself down, the sound of the early signs of healing. As the next song reflects, “blue skies are coming / but I know that it’s hard”.

If The First Days of Spring is written off as self-indulgent and pretentious – or just plain depressing – it’ll be a real shame. There’s a hugely satisfying single-mindedness of purpose about it; a clear-headed, direct portrayal of misery (and the emergence from misery into a more hopeful state of mind) that, yes, employs a host of well-worn, too-familiar phrases. But I think they are true.

out of proportion

Wonderful first episode of the new series of The Thick Of It this weekend; just watched it on iPlayer - super stuff. Still not sure what the best line was, though. Omnishambles, perhaps. Actually no, I think it's the following exchange:

Nicola Murray: "You set this up didn't you?"
Malcolm Tucker: "What?"
Nicola Murray: "To put me in my place, or get back at me for ignoring your advice, or some other weird perceived slight that doesn't in any way merit this massive fucking out of proportion Israeli-style response?"

i am no navigator

Totally lost in Budapest; or Buda to be more precise. Went for a stormy, windswept walk there the other day and totally lost my way - ended up scrambling down from Várhegy into Víziváros and, despite thinking I knew at all times where the Danube was flowing (to my right, to my right) I ended up losing my bearings completely - creating along the way a far longer, more tiring walk than I had intended. But a pleasant one regardless. Here's a photo taken somewhere along the way.

fish tank, by andrea arnold; review

It's a trite but accurate observation that good art is not just about how it makes you feel while you're experiencing it, but also about how it stays with you. In the spirit of that, I keep returning to Fish Tank, the second film by Andrea Arnold, which I saw a month or so ago, and admiring the depth of its feeling, the power of the central characters' performances, and the striking visuals of the cinematography. This makes me think I should have written about it here earlier – as much as anything so I could compare my thoughts then with my thoughts now, which feel like they have blossomed and deepened, but may merely be overpowering my memory as the details of the film recede. This is definitely a film I'll return to when it comes out on DVD.

I remember the visuals more than anything; the way that Arnold has captured a landscape which, although it's familiar to me from encountering it myself, feels alien and extraordinary in a cinematic context, consisting as it does of a sequence of extraordinary, vivid sunsets over the Essex countryside, intercut with scenes of industrial blight – pylons towering overhead and motorways ploughing through the fields. The film is set on the edge of London and at the start of the Essex countryside, so a strange urban/rural duality is presented. Mia, the central character, a bolshy and bright 15 year old, lives a bleak life in a tower block (although this itself in Arnold's film is refreshingly free of cliché – there are no guns in this movie), and understandably dreams of escape. She is a dancer, although perhaps not one, like Billy Elliot, with a life-changing talent. As the title indicates, Mia is caged, looking for an escape. The fact that she can walk out of the city into the green fields, however, offers no respite until Michael Fassbender arrives in her life. He is Connor, her mother's new boyfriend, and a surrogate father figure.

Mia – played with extraordinary believability by the newcomer Katie Jarvis – is in every frame, prowling through the landscape, her movements repetitive, purposeless and frustrated. Each day she sneaks out, argues with peers, circles the estate, and passes a patch of wasteland where travellers keep a horse tied up. Her movements echo that of a caged animal, listlessly circling, sniffing at the possibility of escape. Her outrage at the horse's imprisonment is palpable – her own yearning for freedom just as obvious.

Her home life is thankless; her young mother is largely unconcerned with the duty of raising her two daughters, and Connor – who displays a sudden, unexpected interest in her life – offers something to which Mia is quite unused; encouragement, positive reinforcement, love. Mia has been excluded from school, and her mother echoes their analysis of her, that she is a nuisance, trouble, out of control. And there is another problem brewing; for all that Connor tries to nurture the girls, it is quickly apparent that Mia's role as troubled daughter is complicated by her emergence as a sexual rival for a mother who, apart from when Fassbander is around, is stuck in the memory of her own teenage years.

Connor is as complex and fascinating a character as the young lead. Notably a bit better educated, a bit more gainfully employed, a bit more comfortable in his own skin than the men Mia's mother normally sees, he nevertheless has his own troubles, and his complex relationship with Mia is just one of them. Their connection is apparent very early on. In one scene, Mia pretends to be asleep so that she can enjoy the feeling of his carrying her back to her room, and in another extraordinary set-piece, Connor takes the family out to the country, where he leads Mia into a fast flowing stream, leans over, and simply lifts a fish smoothly out of the water with his bare hands. It is an incredibly sensual scene, where electricity fizzes silently between the two characters, while Mia's mother and sister look on, oblivious.

Mia can hardly be blamed for her feelings for Connor; living a life so shorn of encouragement and love, she is completely unprepared for her reaction when such things are offered. Connor represents freedom, adulthood, and escape. Her already profound spirit of rebellion is spurred, as is a heart-warming, uncynical appreciation of the more poetic side of life. There are some absolutely thrilling scenes when she dances.

For all that Mia blossoms with Connor's encouragement, he is not the strong, centred man that he appears, and things swiftly get out of hand. Yet Arnold handles the development of the story beautifully, drawing wonderful things out of her young lead, and keeping such a tight hold of the reins that the final third of the film, again shot beautifully on the shores of the Thames Estuary, is completely surprising.

Fish Tank has been the best film I've seen this year, even better than Moon, which I praised very highly on this blog just a month or two ago. It's a magnificent study of youthful disaffection, love and anger, beautifully controlled, shot in bewitching colours. And as I indicated, I've thought about it almost every day since I saw it –so I don't think I could possibly recommend another film so heartily.

amazing parliament buildings

If the grandeur and status of the Houses of Parliament has anything at all to do with encouraging our elected politicians in the UK to feel it was legitimate to fiddle their expenses, surely the problem is, if anything, worse in Hungary?

currently listening

Not sure what has prompted it, but been listening to lots of lush 60s garage and psychedelia since I've been in Budapest. Here's a Budapest playlist, via Youtube.

1. The Apple - Bufallo Billycan


2. The Zombies - Care of Cell 44


3. The Idle Race - The Imposters of Life's Magazine


4. The Kinks - Some Mother's Son

szimpka kert, budapest

Rather than soak an experience in and then think about it, analyse it, write about it later, I'm going to have a go at transcribing my thoughts about the latest chapter in my Budapest adventure as I experience it, so consequently I'm crouched over my iPhone while I should be drinking in my surroundings. On the other hand, I am sitting in the pitch black.

A couple of people have mentioned Budapest's ruin pubs to me since I arrived, but it took my friend Laura recommending Szimpla Kert to me to get me in the door of one of them. The ruin pubs are essentially ad-hoc bars created in the space of one of the city's many ruined buildings. In Szimpla's case, it is housed inside a crumbling mansion, a haphazard sequence of rooms, some without proper ceilings, and a huge courtyard in the centre of District VII, the pock-marked, culturally rich part of the city that proved to be first a haven and then a prison for the Jews of Hungary during the thirties and forties.

Everything inside the pub is delapidated and decaying, but the extent to which the space, and the objects within it, have been repurposed is absolutely staggering. Each room has it's own character and is as cosy as the last, even if some are filled with broken chairs, upturned bathtubs and old televisions. The space I'm sat in the at the moment contains 13 of the latter, suspended from the ceiling, each showing a gradually evolving psychedelic image. Apart from the TV's, there is no lighting. So until one's eyes adjust, one is basically sitting in the dark. The room opposite, by way of contrast, is just a few seats and a wall, upon which films are projected. To my left, dimly visible through the archway, a room with ivy snaking across the mesh roof.I've really never been anywhere quite like this before - it is the comfiest, richest, most dramatic and at the same time most basic pub I've ever frequented.

It's absolutely wonderful, in short.

all men are liars

Thanks so much to Simon from Sweeping The Nation for reminding me how good 'All Men Are Liars' by Nick Lowe is; I just love that wonderful, Andy Partridge-esque descending line in the chorus.

And the lyrics elsewhere, of course:

"Well do you remember Rick Astley?
He had a big fat hit, it was ghastly.
He said i'm never gonna give-a you up or let you down.
Well, i'm here to tell you that dick's a clown."

much in demand, apparently

After lunch, yesterday - which included a couple of pints of Dreher (not just the best Hungarian lager, but the lager which invented lager) - I returned to my hotel room, and, suddenly heavy, conked out on the bed.

Actually, I'll start this story 18 hours earlier. On Saturday night, just minutes after I had checked into my hotel, I decided to go and do a bit of exploring - deciding that since it was Saturday night, I'd head down to the bustling tourist district of Budapest. I made the mistake, in doing so, of carrying my Rough Guide to Budapest in my hand, marking me out immediately as a tourist.

I got about three streets down into town, when I was interuppted by a voice. I stopped.

"Excuse me, do you speak English?".

I looked up, and found two, youngish, and quite pretty blonde girls confidently approaching.

"Um, yes", I said.

"Do you know where ____ is?", one asked, saying a name which I couldn't recognise.

"No", I admitted, "I've no idea, sorry".

"But it's an Irish pub!", the other exclaimed, "and you're English, right?".

I agreed that I was, but explained that I'd just arrived and would find it hard enough to navigate my way back to my hotel unguided, let alone dispense directions to others. While one girl studied my streetmap, the other chatted amiably with me, asking what I did for a living, what I was doing in Budapest, and for how long I'd be staying. The girls, apparently, were from a rural part of Hungary and were in the capital for the first time.

I'm pleased to say that, by the time the first girl was finished with the map, I'd concluded that I was witnessing - and taking part in - a carefully scripted scam. When the second girl asked me if I'd take the two of them for a drink, I was able to smile warmly and assure them that, sorry, I didn't have the least intention of doing so. The girls nodded, not bothered, and moved on.

It doesn't take much creative googling to confirm that, however great my charms, I wasn't the first nor the last guy that would be approached by those girls this week.

Walking on into town I allowed myself to smile, first at the fact that, being in a position of strength, I had actually enjoyed talking to the girls (it can be lonely arriving in a new city) and second in the knowledge that, had I been my friend Dan, I'd probably be held hostage in a Budapest basement by now.

So, yesterday, a couple of hours into my nap, I was woken by a knock at the door. Room service? Half asleep, I sat up. The knock came again, insistent, even though I'd left the 'don't disturb' sign on the handle. I got up and shuffled over to the doorway. Outside was a woman, perhaps in her late thirties, who greeted me as if she knew me, but spoke impenetrable Hungarian.

"I'm sorry", I stammered, confused. "Can I help".

She managed to find enough English to insist "I come in", and begin to push on the door.

I held firm, still half asleep, unsure what she wanted.

"I'm sorry", I repeated. "Which room do you want".

"This one", she replied, and again pushed as if to come in.

I was still thinking she was hotel staff, and was on the point of giving in, when I decided to ask one more time.

"What exactly do you want", I demanded.

She leant closer and, pouting, made a loud, passionless, kissing noise. Twice.

Mwaa-mwaa.

I figured it out. Surprised at my reaction, I reached out - she was by now half way into the room - and gave her shoulder a firm, steady, gentle shove.

"Problem?", she said, surprised.

I guided her backwards, nodded my head definitively - at last in possession of the facts - and concluded what I think was my first ever encounter with a prostitute by closing the door firmly in her face.

shapes in budapest

early signs

Just arrived in Budapest and, so far, I'm not sure what to think of it. My plane landed this evening, meaning I've had that strange, slightly disorientating feeling of arriving in the city at night, where everything is obscured from view, or else at best lit artificially. The early signs were almost completely useless; watching the lights of the city from the window as the plane swooped down towards the airport - my first reference point, the first thing I could see clearly in the black was a shopping mall on the outskirts of the city. I strained my eyesight and caught sight of a logo - it read 'TESCO'. I long to visit somewhere where the imprint of British and American commerce is not so all-pervading.

In the taxi from the airport, unable to read the road signs or adverts, and listening to the cabbie's radio, I mused that in many ways Budapest is as far out of my comfort zone as I've been. I'm well travelled through the well-signposted cities of Western Europe. London, Paris, Amsterdam, Lisbon. I've extended my reach to a smattering of coastal cities in North America. But this is my first city with a history of Soviet occupation, my first city with a dialect that completely baffles me. It is also, I realise, the first time in my life I have ever been in a landlocked country. Culturally, linguistically, gastronomically, architecturally; my frame of reference is distant and uncertain.

Then, checked in to my hotel, I tried to get my bearings - walking down to Belváros, the city's downtown, its hub. I know it's the tourist district, so I don't expect too much. And so I enjoy my stroll and work up an appetite. But I feel like I'm in any European city, and the expected wave of strangeness never arrives. Instead, I muse, I'm experiencing a city typical - rather than atypical - of Western Europe: Benetton, Burger King, Subway and Tesco. So I decide that I'm probably just in the wrong frame of mind and return to my hotel. Tomorrow morning I will locate the heart of Budapest - and I'm still optimistic I'll be blown away.

awesome invention

Thanks to Sam, who flagged this up on Facebook; what a brilliant idea - this wheel for a child's bicycle eliminates the need for stabilisers and encourages good cycling habits. Press play and see for yourself. Great example of technology being used in a thoughtful way.

terracotta

design for life

Anyone else falling rapidly in love with French designer and all-round-genius Philippe Starck, courtesy of the BBC's 'Design for Life' programme? I am - it's great value TV (essentially The Apprentice for designers) and I think Starck is the most charming man in the world. He is a force of nature; imitating a klaxon when he enters a room, milking his heavy French accent for all it is worth, and coming up with adorably eccentric soubriquets left right and centre (describing evolution, he declares that "to start weez, we wazz bacteria! Zen feesh. After, we become frog! It ees not exactly ze real story. But eet's close!").

Best of all is the way he fires people. No agressive finger jabbing, no scorn. Instead he merely saunters over, shrugs apologetically, and gently delivers two warm, deadly kisses, one to each cheek. Mwa Mwa. You're fired.

You can catch up on iPlayer.

arial or helvetica

I'm sure I'd never have been able to tell the difference between these sorts of thing a few years ago, but you do learn a few interesting things during a career in publishing. As everyone should know, the font 'Arial' is basically just a shit version of 'Helvetica' - the differences are small but important.

If you think you can tell them apart, try this quiz. I got 8/10, which isn't bad.

Arial or Helvetica?

vilamoura

This is the place to be if you like Golf. Vilamoura, down on the Algarve, Portugal's number one tourist destination, is a kind of vast, cultivated mecca for the sport. The hotels and the roads dot and skirt at the edges of the enormous golf courses - and people like me (wearing my businessman hat) come here to pretend we're on holiday when in fact we're working. No one has played any golf. Instead I've just spent four days in meetings and bars, discussing education publishing and, actually, rather enjoying myself. Have managed to avoid overdosing on alcohol, have eaten some good fish - and am off out shortly to enjoy my final evening here before I return to Brighton. Went out earlier and took some photographs of the surrounding area; they're below - it's a strange environment. No-one around. Thick, unyielding grass, professionally manicured. And lots of plush villas and half-built hotels. This is not my holiday destination of choice. But it's kind of fascinating anyway.

curly hair, live at the duke of york's

Just a quick post this - to bring a band to your attention. Curly Hair are a Brighton-based band operating in that loosely-afililated group of musicians which goes under the name the Willkommen Collective. Playing charming, pretty, lo-fi pop, they supported fellow Willkommen alumni The Leisure Society (also featured on Sounds of Brighton, here) at the Duke of York's cinema on September 21st. Dan and Lyndsey went, and the former made this video.

our mother gave us new clothes to wear

Here's a new song. I was thinking about raffles, village halls, coat pegs and varnished flooring when I was writing it. Video by Dan; filmed in Lewes at the weekend. Thanks Dan!



Email me if you want an mp3 copy, or leave any comments below. Ta.

on siblings

This article in the Guardian today is really really fascinating; after a shared childhood which was both mutually-supportive and unsettling, the Kaczynski brothers became estranged. And one, David, gradually realised that the other, Ted, was the Unabomber, the American murderer who carried out a campaign of mail bombings over almost two decades in protest at the encroaching influence of technology on society. His victims – thankfully only three were killed – ranged from University Professors to airline passengers, from lobbyists in the Timber Industry to a computer rental shop owner. Most suffered because of a sometimes only minor connection with technology. David, noticing similarities between the Unabomber’s manifesto and the furious letters he sometimes received (a key recurring phrase was ‘cool-headed logicians’), notified the FBI.

I’m always powerfully attracted to stories about siblings, and intrigued by the relationship between them. It’s common I think for only children to be interested in this concept – and people often ask me if, when I was young, I wanted a brother or a sister. The answer is that I never, even for one moment, considered it a possibility. I never imagined having a sibling, never felt that my position as an only child was under threat – which is testament I suppose to how loved my parents made me feel. It’s only since I’ve been an adult that sibling relationships have started to interest me – not in such a way as to induce any feelings of envy or regret; but as a powerful spur to my imagination. I often find myself, when I write, returning to the idea of siblings, which is probably a bad idea as I’m not in a position to write with any authority on the subject.

The other day, working on a new song, I was struggling with finding lyrics for the vocal harmony I had in mind. Just as I was at the point of giving up, I invented a completely different melody and grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote a very quick, almost stream-of-consciousness lyric about waiting to be collected from some kind of meeting or event in a village hall. Without thinking, I included the verse:

"I collect up the bodies,
I fold down the chairs,
I wait for my brother.
I whistle a tune,
And our mother – she gave us new clothes to wear".

Flicking through song lyrics I’ve written, I often write as if I’m one of a pair of siblings. How strange. Another song opens with the line,

"Oh Catherine… I know you’re not my sister".

Dr Freud? Any thoughts?

dog playing pool

I think possibly the two minutes I just spent watching this video were the happiest two minutes of my life.

geographical ignorance

Overheard on the train this morning.

Tall, feckless youth: "Did you see the football? Fucking qualified for the World Cup!"
Short, feckless companion: "Did we?"
Tall youth: "Yeeeah. Thrashed Croatia. 5-1."
Short companion. "Who are Croatia?".

How do you answer that?

snow angels

I've not seen his later films, but I'm a massive fan of the two early movies by the American writer and director, David Gordon Green - George Washington and All The Real Girls (which I've written about before). Since those films Green has made a couple more indie pictures and a couple more which suggest he's keen to move in to the mainstream: he's currently making a stoner comedy starring Zooey Deschanel and Natalie Portman. Having lost track of his films somewhat, I just took a quick look at Wikipedia to see what I've missed, and noted that he made a film in 2006 called Snow Angels, starring Sam Rockwell (who was excellent in Moon) and Kate Beckinsale. Anyone seen it? Worth seeing?

Anyway, curious about it I just flicked over to the Internet Movie Database (IMDB) and read a few user comments. This one delighted me - I love it.

"The only problem I found with the movie was that its setting was a bit confusing. There were scenes where the characters used cell phones, and others where there were those record players for LPs. But other than that, the movie was flawless."

Mobile Phones and record players. Can any of my clever readers solve this complex chronophysical puzzle?

deep in thought

drama in the old steine

Ooh, gosh, ouch, wince etc. This must have hurt. Argh.

stussy vs dr martens

When I was a teenager, having the right shoes was very important. At 16, I had four pairs, and couldn't ever imagine needing anything else.

Chelsea boot. Dr Martens 8 eye (cherry red). Desert boot. Adidas Gazelle (dark blue).

Looking back, I've made some pretty horrific fashion choices over the years, but I think I was pretty much on the ball back in '93.

If I'd have seen these back then, I would have died. Stussy have teamed up with Dr Martens to design a new mid-cut boot which seems to take the best of the DM boot, combine it with the sleek beauty of a desert boot, and leaven the mix with the lightness of touch of the best trainer. Weirdly, I think the 16 year old me would have been happier spending £168 on a pair of shoes than I am now - but I know that he'd be scrabbling around for loose change if he was here now.

a day in saltdean

I had some time off last week, and spent it in the least interesting, but most psychologically valuable, way possible – doing nothing. I’ve not had a week off work in years (unless you count those when I’m moving house) so to have a few days of doing nothing was not so much a treat as a necessity. Funnily enough, I didn’t much enjoy it, finding it hard to really relax, but since I’ve been back at work this week I’ve been able to notice the difference. My concentration has improved, my spirits imperceptibly raised. So I’m glad I took a break.

On Saturday, though, I woke feeling like I’d wasted, rather than used wisely, my time, and decided to get out of Brighton. I’d toyed with getting up to London during the week but not done it, and felt that unless I did something I’d feel like an opportunity had been missed. So, glancing up approvingly at the blue sky, I jumped on a bus and made my way East along the Sussex coast, disembarking at the nearby town of Saltdean, intent on taking the air, and a few photographs.

Saltdean isn’t exactly a pretty town, but a characteristic of the English coast holds true; that there is something glorious about the feeling of sea air snapping at one’s neck in the summertime, and that the plainest of towns are immeasurably improved by a clear sky. Saltdean is actually, nominally, part of the city of Brighton and Hove, but really it started as an off-shoot of Rottingdean, the nearby town that was once home to Rudyard Kipling, and a key inspiration for the League of Gentlemen’s Royston Vasey. When Rottingdean’s population rose in the 1920s, the farm land of Saltdean was developed and the small town emerged.

It's not by any means without its charms; although the majority of buildings are poky and functional, there are some real oddities at the Southernmost tip, with kooky nods to Bauhaus and Cubism sandwiched next to suburban bungalows. It's most famous building is Saltdean Lido, a Grade 2 listed outdoor swimming pool which is a lovely, Art Deco landmark on the Sussex coast. It's listed status is no guarantee of its preservation, but it seems to be doing pretty well for itself, although it’s invariably empty when I pass it.

And along the coast in Saltdean is a lovely, small, pebbled beach and promenade, called the Undercliff walk. It was here that, for about four glorious hours, I simply sat on the sea wall and watched the water and the gulls swooping up over the cliffs, ‘til Dan joined me and we started leaning over to take photos of the waves, and got so comprehensively soaked by them that we had to retreat to Rottingdean and have a couple of pints as we dried off.

horizon at saltdean

tttthunk

I am sitting in a mobile phone droppage hot spot. I got a new phone last week, and the fact that it is scratch free pleases me. I get it out of my pocket and check the time. It's eleven thirty. Nice shiny phone. 

I'm sat on a park bench in Hove reading today's paper. My phone slithers out of my pocket and falls between the slats of the seat, hitting the concrete beneath with a ttthunk. I get up to retrieve it, scattering change across the pavement as I do it. I sit back down. 

Tttthunk. 

I look up. A man walking by has dropped his phone. It doesn't bounce, but it immediately starts skidding across the paving towards a drain. He is quick, though - he scoops down to save it, smiling. He is a man of good humour. Self consciously I pat the phone in my own pocket. 

Brrrunk. 

This one does bounce. I'm frankly astounded to see, moments later, a teenage girl with large-framed glass drop her mobile a couple of yards further along the path. The three points, if marked out, would form a pretty exact equilateral triangle. I furrow my brow and muse on this. Some sort of electro-magnetic dissonance in the area? Do people just drop their phones all the time?

I remove my mobile from my pocket - carefully - and take a good look at it. It has a scuff mark, like a small white bruise, on it's flank, and another further up at the top corner. 

I squint at it, trying to work out if I'm bothered. Then I move seats.