The crackhouse is closed on Sundays (Kemptown Bakery) but I was out early enough to go to Café Rust for my morning coffee. All the tables were reserved from ten for the London contingent. I got in at half nine though and it was still empty. It’s all of a five minute walk from Lou’s, and by the time I walked in the door I was shivering through my many layers. The wind off the sea today is biting cold. Rain turned to sleet. I sat very happy with my latte on one of the reserved tables, looking through the glass at the horrorshow of cold things, regretting only that I would have to walk back through it to Lou’s. My morning coffee run when I’m here is a pleasant interlude and a happy luxury. I’ve never really felt the need to bring the press. £3.50 well spent.
Still, the day needed to be about not having to go out in that shit more than absolutely necessary. If I lived underground I’d seal the entrance.
We drove to Jevington down the coast. Haven’t been to The Eight Bells yet and they had a table when we thought to book yesterday. You’ll never get anything to eat at lunchtime on a Sunday in the Brighton area without booking ahead. I could only sit in Rust because I promised to move as soon as the Londoners arrived with their dogs and shouting. “PROPERTY PROPERTY MY BUSINESS MONEY WELL OF COURSE THE CHILDREN HAVE …” Something to motivate me back out into the sleet.
The Eight Bells was calmer. They invented Banoffi Pie in Jevington, in a lovely little cafe that’s been turned into buy to let flats. We drove by on the way to the pub, drove past on the way back. All down that coast community is dying in exchange for the idea of profit and the saddest thing is out past Peacehaven. That area was largely developed to house returning soldiers from WW2, and there was a gorgeous big home for blind veterans. They managed to pull a trick where it wasn’t modern enough, so they could kick all the veterans to some charmless new facility and then use the prime real estate. “What for?” I hear you cry! Why, buy to fucking let, innit. So twelve fat people can get a bit fatter.
Lunch. Just under sixty quid for the pair of us. Two roasts, tap water, a side of cauliflower cheese. “Remember when Sunday roast was £4.99?” says Lou. Now they just pull out whatever figure they feel like.”
I filled up Bergman at the cheapest place around here. Still another £86.00. Another “money out” day as my father used to call them. Can’t have too many a week. I’ve had too many this week. But it’s a Sunday, I get to hang with my beloved. There’s stuff listed on eBay and I’m feeling motivated to really get into that. Also the calls are starting from the unit on my next filming gig, Deep Cover will come out of post before long, events will kick back in with summer I’m sure, and generally life is good. I have just got to watch the old pennies in the short term, but not so much that I can’t run a car, buy coffee and treat my lady to Sunday roast. What’s the point of money if it’s not going round?
AlBarclay 