Sunday, May 13, 2007
Little Richard turned to me, looked me closely in the eyes, her sweet, warm, coffee-tasting breath mixing with mine…edition.
Little Richard turned to me, looked me closely in the eyes, her sweet, warm, coffee-tasting breath mixing with mine…edition.
The 2012 Artists Open Houses are such fun. Adrian and I visited nearly all 716 houses during this year’s 9 week festival. Not only have we made many, many new friends with whom we shared gorgeous, gorgeous Fairtrade cakes, we got super, super fit from all the walking. As if that were not enough! Joy of joys, we actually bought some art. Well, we might have bought some art. We have first refusal on a Green Party Mayor Jordan mural; we know it will make a marvellous talking point in the vineyard of our French home. (Yes, thanks to Ivano Misha and the rest of the Polish team, it’s finally finished.)
I’m still a bit uncertain about buying the mural as I have never been a huge fan of Brighton Glamouratti Katy Price, and at 30 x 20ft in size one probably needs to be. I didn’t even vote for her. Kevin, our very Grand Designer, tells me the mural is awfully NOW and will be worth an absolute mint in no time at all, as the artist is very up-and-coming, de rigeur, and quite a trendsetter. It seems everyone knows the French simply worship graffiti and at just £7k we would be fools not to jump at it. Apparently, the Brighton Tate was after it as well. Adrian thinks it would be even better sited in the public gardens at the old children’s hospital but the chap at the Gallery in Buckingham Road, the one that used to be a sweet little grocery run by the sweet little Indian man, says we should invest in Futures and that he has a gallery full of them.
I have to tell the artist yea or nay by St George’s Day or was it to let George know today? I get so utterly, utterly baffled when I go to art fairs and the like. Thank goodness we have two permanent containers at the Huge Yellow Storage Depot on the old Tin Drum site. Who would have thought that one coffee bean would ever have cost over £11? No one, not anyone, even around here, can pay £22 for a cappuccino. Total lunacy and madness. If you ask me it’s just not sane. The only place to get anything to drink now is the vending machine at Ladbrokes Palace but without the old tobacco-smoky quaintness of yesteryear. I refuse to imbibe. They used to say betting stinks. Not any more.
Remember the restaurants and bars, like the Seven Dials and Smoky Zuma? Gone! All turned back into Banks. What a quaint idea. Little Richard, the sweet young London woman who has just bought numbers 11, 13 & 15 opposite me, giggles and snorts with joy at my tales of yesteryear, former times and days gone by. The “Olden Days” she calls it. On many an occasion she has called around, expectantly proffering an empty bowl with the pretence of the desperate need for lentils or other combustibles, just to hear my tales. Her favourite being the idea that at one time there were three local shops selling light bulbs, brooms and buckets; the concept makes her roar. Now, of course, such trades are the realm of others. She makes me feel black-and-white, as if I lived previously in the Twilight Zone.
Little Richard and I often meet on the Tube train home from Victoria. (A sluggish 19 minutes once we get past Brixton and
Stockwell.) She worships me like a goddess and I thank her for that, as well as the coffee beans she furtively and secretly passes with stealth into my hungry hands. “Come on PG,” she blurts all over the carriage, “tell us about the Florist, the Post Office, and the Paper shop. Was there really a newspaper shop?” The carriage falls silent. A hundred startled eavesdropping passengers, professionals to the core, remove their Medgogs and hang on my every word…Leaving the tunnel, sun-drenched prestige Tower Scrapers, beckon our approach into Brighton: the Gehry, the Rodgers, the Beeney, and the Phil and Kirsty, sentinels all... The tears well up as these proud new citizens hoist me on high, cheering madly, awaiting my pronouncement. “Yes” I exclaim to the excessively enthusiastic group. “Indeed, there was. They sold Black Jacks and Jaffa Cakes, pineapple chunks and White Lightening cider, stamps and electricity top-ups and yes, they sold newspapers.” At this moment an announcer, with mellow, languid, Scottish-indifference takes to her task. “Welcome to the London Brighton City International on behalf of all our shareholders. We are pleased to announce the early arrival of your train. Passengers with onward travel to Fishergate and Portslade Central Gateway should proceed at once to channel four. West Hill residents should choose TUC TUC or escalator at your convenience. Thank you for choosing us for your travel needs tonight”. The crowds disperse, a gay buzzing throng.
Little Richard and I took the escalator up Guilford Road past Sing’s Fish and Chips, now a working museum (mornings only) dedicated to Saturated Fat, Cod and Saveloys preserved in luke-warm water. Recently their Pukka Pie window sticker was stolen in a bizarre burglary. The moving staircase carried us on past the Battle of Trafalgar, long ago converted into a private home; and to our left The Yeoman, still using that name but trading as a Goose Barnacle and Ray Fish Restaurant. A stark testament to global warming.
As we passed the internet cafe that used to be the basket weaver we approached the TV Repair shop, now part of the Tate modern Brighton, Little Richard turned to me, she looked me closely in the eyes, her sweet, warm, coffee-tasting breath mixing with mine, and calmly whispered “PG we are so jolly, jolly lucky to live near the station, aren’t we? ”
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Labels: brighton, green party, jordan, katy price, seven dials, tate gallery
