Hove (Brighton actually...) is where the heart is.

The Bank Holiday weekend, well, Saturday and half of Sunday was spent in God's own city. Tell-tale signs that suggest you have arrived in Brighton are men dressed as women, women dressed as men, a few punks left over from the 80s, hippies transported (miraculously) from the 60s with clothes made from hemp and hair congealed into one large blob and a mist of jostick smoke hovering, filling the nostrils.

Brighton was in partial recovery stage after a hectic month events and a massive influx of foreign bodies to the city. The Ladyboys of Bangkok have gathered up their feathers and made a dainty exit from the city; the giant inflatable cow (Udderbelly) has decamped to Southbank and the throngs of street acts have returned to their relative lives of normality.

A swift saunter through North Laine with Therese (old hand), Helen and Ruth (newcomers) was followed by some greasy fried food on the seafront. How very English! Without a chance to digest, we made a bee-line for the Palace Pier, although re-named Brighton Pier, by that shameless organisation, ironically named 'Noble'. It shall always be the Palace Pier! Helen wowed us all with a repetoire on the trampoline that would make Paula Radcliffe look lazy. No funfair/pier visit is complete without a ride on the ghost train. The scariest part is whether or not the cart will stay on the track as opposed to the polystyrene ghouls and plastic skeletons.

The sun was bathing us as we made our way over to the Fishing Museum to catch up with my old friend Alex, who has just returned from a jaunt in the Far East with a tan, albums full of photos and shingles. Good to catch up with the old boy. Followed by a brisk walk into Hove to inspect a mini-carnival. By this point, the fresh sea air, the heat and the mileage of our stroll began to take it's toll, we decided to head into the suburbs to Chez Baron.

A barbeque ensued, eventually, and the parents were graced with the presence of Therese, Helen and Ruth. As decreed by British Law (The Barbeque and Meteorology Act, 1793), the clouds moved in as soon as the BBQ was unveiled, but thankfully the rain held off.

We left at the right time. We battled our way to the station against a wave of daytrippers heading towards the beach. A lazy sunday, a quickfire picnic on Barnes Common and some frivolities with a cricket ball and frisbee (pleasantly) wasted much of the afternoon. A pleasant stroll along Southbank towards The Globe Theatre rounded things off nicely.

Home is where the heart is? Some people are lucky with where they are born. Some people are eager to escape. Some people never leave. I do miss Brighton, but I shall never regret leaving. I have made friends with people I never would have met if I hadn't hot footed it up to London. I will be back one day, but most satisfied to be one of the dreaded day-trippers that interrupt the lives of the Brighton natives for the forseeable future.

Word of the Day: Quibbleism - The act of beating around the bush

Quote of the Day: 'When there's nothing more to be said, he'll still be saying it' - Anon