brighton, england by the sea, small tiny homes, strange pebble beaches, narrow roads and lush valleys and downs, the trees speckled with colour, the birds hidden chirp, the cold wind sweeps across carried under a hint of sunlight and speckled blue skies, fighting to diminish the unnatural knitted cloud patterns. 
tez and jean, my two good friends in the south are escorting me through brighton's fringe, we join sargent pepper on his double decker bus painted white, exhibiting the art of peter blake.

the costumed folk, the thespian fools the clowns and jesters, the laughing shrieks of a child audience watching a man in a dressing gown running in circles threatening the wind for sabotaging his bubble machines. the spectre of fear as a small terrified conclave of adults watch transfixed at the sinister puppet show reaches it's its hideous climax. brighton rocks with tez and jean, whom i have not seen for three years, point out the features and landmarks, the building where half the conservative party was blown sky high, the tiny boathouses, the creative pulse of individuality, the little shops and narrow roads. the sinking sun casts the skies pink as we head home, how sweet it is down here on the english coast with my friends.