Waves of dust

Fiona has one of the most comfortable beds I've ever slept in. Her bedroom in Hove has enormous windows and the rising sun pours in in waves of dusty light. We always sleep with the curtains firmly closed at home, in a South West-facing room, so it's a while since I've been awoken by a rising sun. Actually, because the clocks went forward last night, it strikes me that it will also be a while before the sun rises at such an early hour again. I lay for some time in the glorious shaft of light wondering whether to get up or fall asleep again. I fell asleep again...

Before returning to London, I took a final walk along the seafront from Hove to Brighton. It was a glorious day: Blue skies and fluffy white vapour trails thrusting vertically towards the heavens. The sun was reflecting on the surface of the sea so dazzlingly that it burned into my retinas.

I had breakfast behind a giant wind break at one of the little cafes on the seafront. Full vegetarian. Orange juice. Nice cup of tea. I didn't rate the tomatoes, which were served them raw. I like cooked tomatoes at breakfast time, so I gave mine to a passing seagull. I watched the doggies jumping excitedly on the heaped pebbles of the beach, and children stumbling barefooted down to the water's edge.

I got to the train station only to learn that a rail replacement bus was randomly going to be taking me to Three Bridges, where I'd need to catch my train to London. I genuinely don't know how anyone lives on the god forsaken Southeastern train line without experiencing depression on a daily basis.

This evening we went down to Limehouse to a party at Nathan's friend's Francine's house. It was a fabulous occasion. I met a potter from Hastings and a fabulous woman who's turned her recidivist tendency to write letters of complaint into a book.

We always have to remember to call the host Francine with a soft c. The registrar at our wedding was also Francine, but she pronounced it with a harsher "ch" sound. I'm reminded of the story of a friend of mine called Marc, who went into a Starbucks where they write your name on the paper coffee cups and told them that his name was "Marc with a c." Imagine his horror, therefore, when the cup came back with the word "Cark" scrawled across it!

I learned today that UKIPs only MP, Douglas Carswell, has now left the party. Twat. That piece of information cheered me up almost as much as Donald Trump's recent political catastrophes.