During a recent visit to England, I felt more than ever a stranger to the land of my birth, but that is not to say that I didn’t enjoy myself; indeed I did. Some of the sights and events that have stuck in my mind:
On a sunny day on the Sussex coast, fishing boats and nets up on the pebbles at Lancing, and dozens of kite-surfers out on the sea.
The beauty of the Regency buildings on Brighton seafront; the nightmare of the traffic there; the scandal of the blackened skeleton of the burnt pier still sticking up out of the sea FIVE YEARS AFTER THE EVENT. Shame on you, Brighton and Hove City Council.
The herds of tragically young mothers.
The mantra of children in shops: “I want! Will you buy me one of those? Can I have some of this?” The frequent response: “You’ll get a fucking hiding if you don’t shut up.”
Pedestrians walking softly so as not to disturb a seagull enjoying an abandoned plate of baked beans at a pavement cafe in Worthing.
Old-fashioned custard tarts, jam doughnuts and iced buns in the baker’s.
The vast numbers of quite unnecessary but almost irresistible products on the supermarket shelves. No wonder people find their weekly shopping costs increasing.
Having a good rummage through the charity shops.
Nearly being mowed down more than once by a senior citizen speeding along the pavement in a mobility vehicle.
Meeting up with a friend after more than twenty years.
Sitting in the lounge of an old peoples’ home while visiting a friend, trying to ignore the dampness in the cushion,and being asked by two residents which room I was moving into.
Being addressed as “you guys” by a waitress in a gastro-pub.
The great variety of places to eat and cuisines to choose from.
A superlative prawn kurma and peshawar naan.
But, more than anything else, the tolerance and courtesy of English road users who, unlike their French counterparts, do not insist on boxing you in behind slower vehicles and refusing to allow you out; nor do they sit on your bumper flashing their lights, hooting, glaring and making rude gestures when you are overtaking a long line of slower-moving vehicles. The English traffic might be hell, but the drivers are so much better than les conducteurs français. (Why are a nation of normally such polite people such beasts behind the wheel?)
Posted in Unusual gifts, blogging | Tags: England, Sussex, Worthing, Brighton Pier, dreadful French drivers
Gastropub = pub specialising in good food. A misnomer in the case of the one above, where the food was moderately decent and the service hilariously inept. The “servers”, who looked as if the oldest was 15 at most, stood around in giggling huddles, rolling their eyes if a customer signalled for service and forgotting most of the order. Their leader was a youth not yet old enough to shave, who had a manner that was both condescending and overly familiary. He called my host “you liar”!
