We’re back from our honeymoon weekend in Brighton. Actually we got back yesterday, but I’ve been too grumpy to post. My mood was restored by watching the latest instalment of TGBBO on iPlayer last night (that’s The Great British Bake Off for those who don’t worship at the altar of Paul Hollywood). We have a new telly as a wedding present, so Paul’s steel-like hair is more bristly, his piercing blue eyes more vivid, his withering criticism more caustic than ever before.

I love Brighton. How I lived in the UK for 7 years without visiting it is beyond me. I love the trashiness of the pier and the retail paradise of the lanes. Without intending to go shopping, we found ourselves purchasing Aubin & Wills clothes, Orla Kiely towels and the very same mixing bowl that is on TGBBO. I think I’ve mentioned before that we are eye-wateringly middle class.

In the amusement arcade we played the basketball game that we always gravitate towards in seaside towns. Every time, I think I will beat B, but I never do. He says he triumphs because he is closer to the basket, but I think he’s just being nice.

In the true style of a British long weekend, we had one lovely day, one average day and one truly awful day. We went from sitting outside in the sunshine for lunch on Saturday to getting drenched while our umbrellas blew inside out on Monday.

The Royal Pavilion was great. For the entire tour I could not help but think of the Prince Regent as depicted in Blackadder. It seemed like exactly the type of place he would inhabit.

Aside from shopping and sightseeing, we ate a lot of seafood, drank a lot of wine, slept in late and lay around reading the papers. It was the perfect weekend.

Now we’ve landed back in reality with a thud. B is currently at the Royal Marsden having a blood test and collecting his chemotherapy drugs. The first of his 6 cycles starts tomorrow. He just sent me a text:

‘I think there should be a law against talking about one’s illness, especially in hospital waiting rooms’.

It sounds as if he is enjoying himself.


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