Decade

It totally took me by surprise.  This month (almost to the day, in fact) I have lived in Brighton for 10 years.

I moved here on a whim, with a boyfriend.  I had only ever visited for the weekend once before.  I didn’t have a job or anywhere to live.  We arrived on the train, on a rainy Sunday night, a little bemused and with our possessions in rucksacks.  We lived in a B&B for a few weeks until we found a flat.

It all sounds so young and brave now.  So stupid, some might say, but it’s worked out OK.

I’m not with the same boy any more – but we both still live in Brighton.  I’ve lived in four different flats and houses around Brighton.  I have made brilliant friends.  I have written books.

I have done all the things you do when you make a city your own.  I have staked out my favourite pubs.  I have got to know my neighbours.  I have run along the beach and the streets and the parks.  I have taken visitors to the Pavilion and been ice-skating there in the winter.  I have discovered favourite new bands in grotty venues.  I have had secret assignations in the museum.  I have eaten spaghetti Bolognese in the 24-hour caff at 4 in the morning.  I have got excited every time I saw Nick Cave or Natasha Khan in the street. I have bought a lot of shit from Snoopers Paradise.

All that stuff.  You know.  For 10 years.

To mark the occasion, I think I will do my best to remember and to forget.  I will drink Champagne and burn sage.

Brighton, I still love you.