woozy tribute to the state of mind induced by being
in Brighton. The summer after my father died I spent
several months there, resuming an infatuation with
the place I had started in my teens. Brighton more
than met me half way, offering up well-meant love tokens
- paintings (see, below right, 'Breakfast in Brighton'
by Edward le Bas), garrets, ugly fish that take an
age to die and a succession of charmingly skewed people.
This is the story of bountiful months, gilded here
and there and interwoven with histories and other lives
and mad hopeful fictions.