Brighton

Am sitting in the palatial lounge area of a Brighton hotel, looking over Brighton Pier, and obviously, blogging.

Brighton Pier is shambolic. It needs to be torched, just like its counterpart eastwards. Walking along there yesterday, my mood went from happy to grey to ‘mass murderer’. Simply put, I hate funfairs. They spook me. They give me the creeps. All those (oh shit, Kenny Loggins just started playing……), cheap thrills rides coupled with shitty arcade games and topped off by flashing lights and bad music, just make me wanna run. It’s (oh shit, it’s a duet with Dolly Parton), one thing about summer that is a downer. All the funfairs come out of their winter hibernation and invade the available park space and commons. Except Brighton funfair. That’s a permanent fixture.

Sitting at breakfast, I found myself surrounded by the grey brigade. In a sea of wrinkles I dogpaddled, just keeping my head above the murky middle-aged waterline. As I head for 40, I wonder if I will be seated at a table, amid fellow octogenarians, piling my plate high with bacon and croissants and marveling at the seaside like its some big unknown quantity.

Hardly likely. For one, I will probably take the ocean for granted since I grew up in a place that has beaches aplenty.

But I can’t say that ageing doesn’t somewhat scare me. Not so much the inevitable dried fruit appearance that my features will take on. More so the where will I be? Will I be scabbaging for pennies from my pension, trying to make ends meet? Will I be alone? Will I have kids? Will I be living in England, Australia or somewhere else? Will I be in a council flat or in a country house surrounded by cats, dogs, a horse and a couple of otters? Love otters. Did you know that they’re the only mammals who keep playing once they reach adulthood? I love that. I guess one thing is for sure is that as I reach my older years; I will still have my sense of humour.