Sometimes, I love Brighton. Despite the pretentions, the attention seeking clothing, the rich people from London who become enamoured of it’s ‘cool boho-ness’ and move down, then determinedly price the said quality out, and make clear there it shouldn’t be anything that’s unsuitable for the eyes of little Jocasta and Huxley.
I love being able to browse a fabric shop stuffed with fabulous cotton prints and that the shop staff didn’t mind that I was walking round stroking bolts whose colours were particularly pleasing to touch. I love even more that my mother is going to make me (and hopefully teach me how) a cupcake dress. 
I love having a pub lunch from somewhere where the staff aren’t forced to dress and act like clones, the food is delicious, good value and actually home made on the premises rather than ‘home made’ in a factory in Middlesex by underpaid labour of dubious legality.
I didn’t love the caterwauling that passed for singing coming from some right-on festival at the Quaker Meeting House, but I loved that the festival was allowed to happen. 
I loved finding new graffiti, and that Brighton is a city whose street art references the decapitated wives of Renaissance monarchs. (If you know that’s not Anne Boleyn, do correct me.) 
I love finding a street market selling a mixture of local produce, vintage clothing and costume jewellery, funky household bits and bobs, vinyl records and poetry. I love that when I was photographing the tomatoes and a guy reached out to try one, he apologised profusely and sincerely and I made a joke we all smiled. I love that the poet wasn’t a pretentious eejit, and said he was glad to see people laughing, rather than thinking we were mentalists. I love that the street was full of people doing what they loved and ignoring people who say there’s no point in writing, or making crafts, or small scale food production, because there’s no money in it.I love that I got the train home regretfully, but inspired.
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