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| Picture by C. G. Grey |
Autumn approaches with crinkled leaves in all their shades of orange and gold, bright red and russet hues. Yesterday was an end of summer bike ride along the seafront, from the kitsch, candy floss smelling Brighton Pier to the ghost of the west pier, where I have set some of the story I am writing now. It was a glorious run on the new bike, the beach was heaving with end of summer revellers, Harley Davidson ralliers, Hare Krishnars, tuneful buskers, lithe dancers, chanting demonstrators outside the T.U.C., rally, a brass band playing in the bandstand and the smell of coconut oiled bodies checking out the last of the summer rays. A cross-section of Brighton life rolled out like a hall carpet along the shoreline, and as I turned to come up the back of Hove I heard a young woman with a busker's cap at her feet, reading from a poetry chap book, all I could remember was the line, 'swirling starlings dived...' but I might have made that up - poetic licence, but you know what kind of day it was... 'I thought I was someone else, someone good...'
