lighting a candle in Cambridge following Funeral Service for great Irish actor and man-of-the theatre, Gerard Murphy
farewell to Curiosity my ownerless black cat who likes to give me the eye from the garden of my Cambridge one-room flat in the morning
Angus, my aunt Margaret’s adorable springer spaniel giving his untrained jaws a work out – there’s love in those eyes, or am I anthropomorphising?
a gum tree in Kent – aunt Margaret’s garden in Knockholt Pound – deeply anti-green Tory of course, except for proudly socialist Margaret!
I was with Margaret when we found this Chinese-style ‘Pantry Buddha’ in a local garden centre. We were looking for a Green Man so I’m delighted to see the Enlightened One is collecting some soft moss and green foliage. Rub his tummy and you will not go hungry according to old lore.
The road to Brighton via Anne Boleyn country. Witchy county – I slept in those ancient coppiced woods close by Crawley and I swear I heard laughter in the crooked branches at the witching hour – the drizzling hour before dawn broke clear of the murky dream mesh in my troubled soul.
Or something like that. I slept ok! In Shakespeare’s ‘rooky wood’.
Brighton’s very own Steve Ovett – a boyhood hero of mine – has the freedom of the city.
If Seb Coe was ‘poetry in motion’, Steve Ovett was tactical genius and the pure filament of ‘will to win’. And I loved his ‘I love you’ finger-work on crossing the line, unless he came in second! Great man whose fierce battles with Seb and Steve Cram (and don’t forget Elliot!) enlivened my teenage years. The Golden Age of British middle-distance running. Period.
Banjo-picking rough-sleepers and uke-strumming bikers welcome at my favourite Brighton seafront cafe, the one at the end. Brighton is anti-snobbery. That’s the main reason I love it – along with the fresh sea air promoting instant companionship. Great session, Dave.
Try stripping off and taking a shower in the centre of Cambridge! Brighton even has a dedicated naturist beach. Not for me – I’m far too shy.
and madly beautiful former Royal Palaces, view from The Pavillion Cafe, threatened with closure by totally unecessary £25m Green Council-backed plan to de-shabbify and get rid of the homeless and destitute who find some momentary peace of mind in these well-kept public green spaces.
The Argus, Brighton’s slightly bigotted local rag claiming that the Pavillion Gardens are littered with needles from hundreds of smack heads! What a load of cobblers!
Sunset on Brighton Beach viewed through the poetic dereliction of the Old Pier.
Banjo Nick’s resting place – a mile or two from the Brighton seafront where camping is ‘strictly prohibited’, of course.
Awake for the dawn.