BRIGHTON PIZZA GIRL.

“Oh look Ptolemy, this must be it”

“Wow, Marianne, what an extraordinary site. Layer upon layer with no overall architectural conception; an onward rambling monstrosity, what is it?”

“Ptoolmy, it’s a labyrinth of neglect. Look at that rust. Twisted distorted metal from some ancient forge; bolts ripped from their casings; cracked, pulverised paving; graffiti and detritus dumped by an uncaring public. Seldom have I seen such an unloved site Ptomollolly”

“Yes, indeed, Maryanne. It’s monstrous but ghastly; ghastly but monstrous. But I love it. I love every inch of it. It’s a triumph, an absolute joy. What is it?”

“Tomollollie, it’s surrounded with clues. An architectural detective story; a road map of its eccentric, glorious past. You need to stand back to get a better idea of the proportions, the scale, its amplitude and sheer bigness, the actual size and dimensions. Oh look, Ptomonolee, the patternation suggests some kind of chevron effect. See how its circular form sits Henge-like at its epicentre. Huge swathes of tarmacadam radiating from its core like the dials of an ancient clock at the heart of the community. Seven arteries and veins flowing deep into the surrounds”

“Yes, Maryianne, even as we speak the endless stream of processing vehicles circumnavigating its mysterious structure, endlessly and never-ending without stopping, and going on and on, oblivious to its function and form, just going about their business intent, only going from A to B and occasionally, perhaps, to C.”

“Yes, Ptomelly, and all the time the gyrating, gushing pollutants adding to its decay and ultimate destruction, and look, you can even smell the sweat of the men who must have constructed it, Ptolomany.”

“Yes, Merryannn, it’s as if we are in a sepia photograph. I can see a sepia version of you parading in a long frock, going about your business. Horse and carts and steamrollers; the throng of merry tradesmen and happy shoppers. It saddens me and fills me with melancholy; makes my heart heavy with mournfulness to see it in this condition. A travesty; an indictment of this age of the quick fix; a testament to time and memoriam.”

“Yes, Ptolology, it mustn’t be left to rot in a sea of neglect and indifference. A timely intervention could save it for the nation.”

“Yes, Maeryan, if we don’t have places like this we will just be left with our recollections. A dim receding memory of what was and what might have been. A heritage gone asunder, another missive missed. I believe this to be so Marriannne.”

“Yes Ptomelly.”
“Yes Maryanna.”

At this point a silverhaired comedian on a biycle rides up to our intrepid twosome.

" There you are you prats I've been waiting for you at the West pier for over an hour what the **** are you doing here?"

FADE TO BLACK

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# posted by PG @ Sunday, September 10, 2006 0 comments links to this post

Labels: Restoration village. seven dials.