What a lovely escape. This evening I woke up and poured hot coffee all over my friend’s kitchen by the simple device of not screwing on the aeropress filter thing properly. I was too busy being swept up in the wonder of the device itself. I suspect I’ll have to buy one now I know how to operate it. My little red stovetop espresso bubbler makes a predicable morning brew but I have to burn gas to heat it and whatever metal its made of seems to be slowly flaking away cup by cup and going through my digestive system with the caffeine payload.
The plan was to play more games, but a bright autumn morning and an enthusiastic doggeh and a hangover made for a fine walk down The Ocean at the End of the Lane to The English Channel. Portsmouth council have indeed named a road after their native authors lovely strange nostalgic novel. Spread out at the end of it you have shells and pebbles falling quickly into the wash, and little white buildings slowly making you good drinks to enjoy despite the windchill. We strolled and talked and skimmed stones. We sat and talked and I had Chai Latte with bourbon and I realised I’m gonna need a windproof for December in Jersey.
The morning was for talkings and catching up without the frame of a game. So nice to see these lads again.
Then in the afternoon I thought I’d catch a chance to see my nephew. By fortune he has ended up in the same bit of Portsmouth. He’s nineteen and his Hall of Residence for university overlooks the sea just down from where I spent the night. I took him for a quick Sunday lunch to catch him before Christmas. We did a frantic news exchange. First year at uni, first term. He’s barely scratched the surface but there’s a long long way to go. I tried to provide an ear while scoffing roast beef. Brighton was calling though, and the drive back before I got too sleepy.
More coffee, without more bourbon, and hopefully the lunch and the time had absorbed the units. I was sleepy though and drove at an unaccustomed slow pace until I got back down the coast to the pebbles of Brighton. Now I’m in the bath. It’s cold everywhere else so I’m going to stay here as long as I possibly can. I might even wash myself. It seems things are always pulling me to the sea these days. “The sea is in your blood,” my grandmother would tell me. Seems it’s calling. The Thames is ok, but I’ve had some shit from it over the years. Let’s sea…