This is where I was last week instead of sitting at my desk blogging. Beside the seaside.
I like Brighton. It's one of the few things Mr F and I don't agree on. It's a town full of whimsy and schlock and cor blimey Brits feeding their faces on fish and chips. It's the seaside of my childhood. Except that these days it's had a lavender rinse.
I checked into my hotel and was welcomed by Stephane (or was it Hervé) and as he sashayed towards me in his very tight pants I was slightly alarmed to see the walls were decorated with photographs of naked men. I mean, I know Brighton is Gay HQ, but couldn't we at least sign the guest register first?

My daughter had chosen an Italian restaurant, and as we were two females out on the town (albeit one of them of pensionable age) our waiter felt obliged to give us his 'have you seen the size of my pepper grinder' schtick, until I spoke to him in Italian. That took the puff out of his calzone.

Thursday morning I was early for my appointment so I went for a walk along the Palace pleasure pier. It had been at least a year so I thought I'd see what was new. Henna tattoos seem to be very big this summer. I suppose it's a relatively 'all natural' way of disfiguring your body. I suppose it's better than being saddled with an indigo LOVE MACHINE for the rest of your life. The kiosk selling biltong and other tasty African snacks is new too. Dried ostrich. Mm-mm. Sounds like a real winner.

So I completed my business, got a good fix of ozone and caught up with Daughter No 2. A very good trip all round.
And Hervé (or was it Stephane?) even carried my luggage to the waiting cab.
I'm sorry Mr F, but I do like Brighton.