Who needs the Caribbean when you can visit Brighton instead?

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Who needs the Caribbean when you can visit Brighton instead?

It’s summer, and exotic locales beckon. Is it going to be Barbados? Bermuda? Bonaire? “With a global pandemic, it might be a little tricky traveling to those regions on short notice,” Justin, my ever-patient support bubble, stated. So, after considering our options and weighing the risks and costs of covid-testing, we compromised and chose a trip to Brighton instead.

As the home of the Brighton Pier, Brighton Rock, the Lanes, the Pavilion, and I’m not sure what else, it comes highly recommended.

Laurence Olivier lived there, and it is known for its dramatic culture. It was put on the literary map by Graham Greene. Brighton has something for everyone: it is possibly the most right-on place in the country, if not the globe, but there are some extremely grand houses strewn about.

“Brighton rocks, geddit?” says the narrator. So, with a metaphorical bucket and spade in hand, I said to my SB, and off we went.

As we negotiated a spot among the crowds of holidaymakers in fine fettle after being cooped up for a year, we imagined a scorching hot day on the Brighton sands, perhaps with a picnic of crab sandwiches, as we imagined a scorching hot day under the beating sun on the Brighton sands, perhaps with a picnic of crab sandwiches.

Henry James remarked, “Summer afternoon summer afternoon; to me, those have always been the two most lovely words in the English language.” And if the great man thinks it’s good enough, I’m sure it’s good enough for me. What’s the worst that might happen?

As the train moved into Brighton station, we got our first sign that not everything was going according to plan. As soon as the door opened, an arctic blast blew through the carriage, not only in terms of temperature but also in terms of a force 10 gale.

My SB said, “A beautiful refreshing breeze,” as we battled the wind to get to the cab stop, the conditions being far too hard for a leisurely stroll down to the beach.

“I bet you don’t need to wear tights in Barbados in July,” I murmured despondently as I made an emergency stop at a shop to buy a pair of tights. “Let’s head down to the pier,” says the narrator.

Brighton is a beautiful city, and my SB grew up in Kemptown, but only with the best of intentions. “Brinkwire News in Condensed Form.”

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