*May contain adult themes and material which some people may find offensive*
Date: Thursday 7th November
Location: Brighton
Specifically: Wishing I were anywhere else except in a motorhome in Brighton with some stranger knocking at my door at 4.00 a.m
One of the downsides to living in a motorhome, as opposed to traditional bricks and mortar, is that you are more vulnerable. My experience thus far is that negative experiences tend to be magnified; for example a fierce wind blowing might barely be noticed in a traditional house but certainly would be in a motorhome where one might experience everything from a gentle rocking motion, as if being lulled off to sleep in a cradle, rocked by the invisible hand of an unseen omnipotent force to feeling like the next earth shattering blast is going to blow your little box on wheels arse over tit, rolling over and over before finally coming to rest in a mass of twisted metal that looks like it something that materialised from a car crushing device at a scrapyard.
You can imagine how I felt then, when someone (or something!) knocked on my door at precisely 4.00 a.m. I didn’t rush to answer it of course any more than I would have been in any hurry to open the door to a cry of “hey mate would you mind awfully if we popped inside for a moment to test the effectiveness of this multi-bladed weapon on your skull?”
I could hear voices outside but not enough to tell what was being said. I hoped it might be Tony - given that the knock was steady and precise, the sort that might be produced by a neighbour popping round to borrow a saucer of milk for the cat - but I was sure it wasn’t. Fortunately the knock wasn’t repeated and after listening for a few moments dropped back to sleep. Just as well for I did not want to be the first ever male to get knocked up in Brighton! (though that would certainly have helped in getting publishers to take an interest). From a disadvantage of living full time in a Motorhome to one of the many, many advantages. In this case a sea view. Sea views, ocean views, views across the bay, views overlooking a landscape all have one thing in common - they are usually expensive. In a Motorhome these views frequently cost zero or next to nothing. I think there are many people who are envious of that.
Brighton is no exception - £7.20 to park for the whole day on the sea front, no charge at all between the hours of 8.00 p.m and 10.00 a.m. It sounds great and it is!!
With one exception
The bloody cycle lane (cum skateboard, scooter, rollerblade, unicycle and many variations thereof lane)
Now before people get on at me telling me I’m anti-sport, anti-exercise, anti-health a miserable bastard and a naysayer to boot allow me to explain.
I think many people are envious of people who own motor-homes - seeing it as a passport to freedom; one that allows you to go anywhere, stay anywhere and (assuming you are living in it full time) not face hefty bills every month. Most people who are envious (and of course it isn’t all by any means) handle this constructively, they buy or save for a moho they can afford.
Sadly there are a minority of people who bitterly resent this freedom and will moan and complain, whinge and criticise and hurl insults and abuse. Most people in this category handle this constructively - they slope of grumbling about how horrible/nasty/scruffy/untidy moho owners are but leave us alone while sadly a minority of this group take subversive action.
So, (perhaps surprisingly) no moaning for this lot. Crafty see; what they’ve done is put down a cycle track that is bang in the centre of the pavement and takes up about the middle two thirds of it. This gives the impression that they are a) pro safety and b) - devious bastards - pro, or at least not, anti-moho.
They are also aware that most people will never have seen a cycle track like this. Many towns don’t have them and those that do place the track to one side of the pavement leaving plenty of space for pedestrians.
Oh dear
Recipe for disaster
You can imagine the scenario. Moho chappie wakes up bleary eyed, drags himself out of bed, scratches itchy testIcles/arse - before reaching for his own. Gets dressed, dragging on each item of clothing as though it were made of lead. Opens his door, steps outside to take the morning air - oblivious to anything like the cycling equivalent of a duel carriageway - and is subsequently; swept away by a rollerblading commuter (always said new technology would cause problems), mown down by a teenager, and has his fingers squashed into the tarmac by a three year old trundling along on a tricycle who expresses half-hearted surprise as yet another idiot tourist compromises her morning perambulations.
Having raised himself into something approaching a standing position he staggers towards the beach where he discovers that the scene before him is not altogether unpleasant. Above are blue skies, sunshine, seagulls wheeling dipping and diving in the morning air (no sign of any Canada Geese though) and a few whispy clouds scudding gaily along (well this is Brighton).
Below this wonderful extravaganza is the famous Brighton beach where in May 1964 several thousand people discovered an alternative to the traditional methods of enjoying the seaside i.e sunbathing, building sandcastles, chomping down sticks of rock and slurping ice-cream and decided to run around scaring the living daylights out of the general public by; hurling themselves over railings, causing extensive damage to buildings and property, running amok on the sea front and hitting each other with heavy objects instead.
Sigh - the stupidity of youth.
Mote later guys
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