Mahendra´s wet dream

During my time over the seas there have been many people, places, and weather patterns that I´ve missed. One of these is the indomitable Mr Raghunath. Why, oh why, can´t I watch the SABC3 News over the Internet?

As I was walking back to the train station in Brighton, I had a particularly sharp pang of Mahendra nostalgia when I passed GBties.com. At first I thought it would be Mahendra´s wet dream, but realised most of the ties were too garish even for the Raghunath´s tastes. Unfortunately, I couldn´t go inside, as it was closed, but had some fun window shopping - with Mahendra in mind. I think he might have liked the purple tie (second row, fourth from the right). Which one do you think would have taken the Raghunath´s fancy? (Btw, you can click on the pic for a close-up view).

Brighton "beach"

I ended my time in Brighton with a trip to the beach. It felt like forever since I´d seen the sea. I guess that´s what happens when you live in a doubly landlocked country. Although it had stopped raining, and was almost sunny, nothing could compensate for the horrendous pebbliness that was the beach. Sure, I´ve seen films of beaches in Britain. But I didn´t think such beaches actually existed in real life. Certainly not any more. I imagined they were a quaint feature of the "olden days" before people had it so good. You know, that long-ago time when the world was only in black and white, as evidenced in classic movies.

But finally my oversized bag came into its own, as it provided a comfortablish seat: certainly better than those bloody pebbles. I plonked myself down and took out my copy of Odd Girl Out. There was a rather cute girl also sitting on the beach who looked a bit like Saint from Sugar Rush, but alas, she didn´t seem too interested in my choice of reading matter...

A royal day

Have been doing some higgledy-piggledy posting recently, but this post marks a return to my Brighton excursion. It was still before ten in the morning, so the rides on the pier weren´t open yet. I just wondered around in a daze, bombarded by loud music and flashing lights (these were working in all their technicolour glory). "Kitsch" doesn´t quite describe it: I think "tat" is more apt.

I really wanted to explore the lanes next, but in a rare moment of pragmatism I had to admit that it is easier to lug a heavy bag around museums than shops. So I checked out the Brighton Museum, an Art Deco wonderland. But my favourite piece was from the surrealist school: Mae West Lip´s by Salvador Dali and Edward James. Such a pity I couldn´t sit on this artwork! (NB. I took the pic before I discovered the "shooting-behind-glass" function on my camera).

Then it was off The Royal Pavilion. Wow: the Prince Regent could teach today´s celebrities something about conspicuous consumption! I loved the banqueting room, but my favouritest was the music room - simply glorious.

You know, I don´t always love visiting places such the British Museum, full of artefacts plundered from all corners of the colonial empire, deprived of their original context. As a nominal socialist, I do find the Pavilion´s unashamed ostentation somewhat grotesque. That said, I really appreciated seeing the all the prince´s treasures (and modern replicas) in the surroundings that were their home, instead of at some stuffy museum.

And, since we all know I am really a not-so-closet champagne socialist, I began mentally planning a dinner party (with postprandial entertainment in the music room, naturally) hosted by myself and ABJ. Hiring the Banqueting Room, Great Kitchen, and Music Room would only set us back £4 520 after all. And room hire isn´t even subject to VAT - what a bonus!

On the wrong side of the (smoking) law

When I was in the UK, I wanted to see as many friends as possible. "Come to Brighton," suggested KR, so I came. After a suitably decadent Friday night, KR was up brighton early (sorry!) to go to work, and I was at the train station. With a lamentably heavy "overnight" bag. (My packing problems are documented here, and here). In the rain.

I was only due back in London that evening but, despite my heavy load and the shite weather, I was tempted to spend the day exploring Brighton. First up, I asked a policeman at the station if there was anywhere to leave my bag. Now, KR had already informed me that there wasn´t, but I figured there was no harm in a second opinion. The policeman dispelled any lurking doubts with a brusque retort: "We don´t have lockers. Terrorists are likely to put a bomb in them."

I was tempted to reply: "And Eid Mubarak to you to sir," for it was indeed Eid, but figured that wouldn´t go down too well.

I decided to have a cigarette while I pondered my plans for the day. I went and stood outside the station, but under the shelter, due to the rain. At which point the policeman chased after me, to inform me that the station was a no-smoking area. Apparently, you can´t just be outside the actual building to smoke, you have to walk a few metres to outside the station gates, because what I took to be outside is still technically part of the station.

Pernickety fucking Brits. In Zurich, you can smoke in the train station itself. However, I duly had my cigarette outside in the rain, as I am scared to death of the British police. Gone is the image of the friendly bobby from my childhood; instead I live in fear that one of the paranoid freaks will randomly gun me down just because.

The altercation had put me in a defiant mood. "Damn my packing skills, and the bloody weather," I reasoned: "When am I ever likely to be in Brighton again?" So I set off for the pier weighed down by my bag, but buoyed up by an intrepid spirit.