Another hot afternoon in the back garden of the Dumb Waiter cafe in the North Laine in Brighton. Sat drinking cups of tea, listening to cries of 'order!' from inside, and a woman at the counter talking about her sister's boyfriend. Sub-London accent cutting the stillness. Completing the crossword, caught on questions about the Colossi at Thebes. A woman with long grey hair sits next to us, tapping into a mobile phone, and a man to our right; 'I know I'm gay, but we don't all go there' he says to a man reading the paper sat on the steps that lead into the kitchen.
Last night, coming back from a small beer festval in a small pub at the base of Southover Street hill. Kind landlord let us sit outside after coming in time as long as we were quiet. Drinking some Belgian beer that tasted of Worcester Sauce. Strong and sour, but strangely pleasant. Crossing the level. The skateboard park silent, but the path across the green busy with rumours and the small hours on a Saturday night. A friend attacked here two months ago, serious enough to give him mild concussion. Always tales about this park. Sarah skips ahead of us, blurry under street light, and from the shadows in front of us, someone else skipping. Doppelganger movements, and she passes by without saying a word.
