 | Friday May 12 Back to England. More specifically, Brighton. Immediate impressions - I can't believe the amount of dirt and grime on the bedroom blinds. Charlotte warned me when I purchased them (she'd just finished cleaning the ones in her old flat) but I didn't listen. They looked styling. Regretted it now: although, the very action of cleaning them may have staved off the worst effects of jet lag. After a couple of hours sleep - and a shocked appraisal of how much human skin can cling to a shower curtain after a couple of years - spent the majority of the day dusting with a wet cloth in corners that my tenants clearly didn't believe existed. The fridge is a particularly gruesome offender. And would that two-thirds full jar of cranberry jelly nestling smugly on Jon's cupboard shelf be the same two-thirds full jar of cranberry jelly that I left behind 18 months ago? I think it would. Jon makes the briefest of 10 second appearances with American girlfriend Tobi on his way out the door to London. He looks tall, gaunt and shocked to see me. I have a nasty feeling he heard C's rant about tenants who don't pay rent and then don't even clean the place, earlier. Saw C's older sister Vic - the one with the newborn baby. The siblings chatted and ate cake while I futilely sprayed Mr Muscle in the general direction of the window blinds. (It was to be the last time there was such a bias in cleaning duties my way. Shortly afterwards, I took the 12th Amendment - in my case, retreating to my lap top computer under the defence of needing to stoke up my work contacts - and relinquished any claim to the higher moral ground.) Brighton looks the same. On the journey down, a blues singer regaled the airport coach with raw-throated versions of "Mustang Sally" and a Dylan song. It was more enjoyable than you might believe, especially when the driver used the intercom to sing along with "Under The Boardwalk". He then ruined it with the Verve's tepid "The Drugs Don't Work", a song which seems to sum up everything small, grey and parochial about this country I've tried to escape. Last time I heard it, a busker was singing it even more flatly than Ashcroft in Brighton's Lanes. I hope this isn't an omen. © Everett True 2000 |
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