I’ve had my sights set on returning to West Hill since I flew up to London post Sussex Uni. I’d been living in Alexandra Villas back then, doing an MA in Victorian Literature. I loved the area with its white houses, regency porches and artistic vibe.
Thus, I landed in dank December last, like some half-crazed homing pigeon on auto pilot. Six months later, the tsunami of my life’s mess finally subsiding, I’ve shoe-horned myself into a fabulously quirky place – and I’m home. And happy. Now, despite still having to battle up to the London bog once or twice a week for work, I can scuttle happily back to West Hill and enjoy living a more colourful life.
“Oh, you’ve downsized”, London friends coo sympathetically, “Are you retiring?” “Nope”, is the snappy answer. Nowhere near ready to down tools. If anything, I’m ready to start regaining a sense of my wilder, freer, more creative, self and fill my end-of-life bucket full of lots of new experiences, thrills, and people.
My daughter decamped to Bristol from the family home last year saying she was going to ‘Please herself’, so I think I’ve followed her lead, coming to Brighton, to ‘Please myself.’ This entails giving up some redundant over-worthy life patterns:
First off the list: all the shoulds, oughts and musts. In the bin with them. My new guiding light is: “What do I feel like doing?” “What do I fancy?” Tuning into me has included painting my Tardis-like home in hues of deep purple and red, terracotta and gold. It matches my hair, which I have to say, I’ve been sporting in all its trademark purplish glory for about 15 years.
Second: duty before pleasure. This doesn’t mean I don’t care, but it does mean I only go to things if I really want to. Invited to something and I’m not I the mood – I don’t do it. Maybe knitting, reading a good book or watching Bridgerton in bed eating chocolate, is just what I need.
Third: caring what people think. One of the tenets of screenwriting is ‘Nobody knows anything’ (why a film bombs or not), and indeed in social relations it’s impossible to know what really people think, so why bother? We spend so much time caring about this, but frankly – who knows? Also, who cares?
Fourth: equating alone with lonely. I’ve learned to love my own company and seldom feel lonely. However, the genuinely friendly welcome I’ve received from neighbours (thanks Lisa for feeding my cat), (thanks Tracey at Jaglia for my cat cups), trades people, shopkeepers, even bus drivers, has meant West Hill has offered the warmest of welcomes so far.
Fifth: no time for me. I plunged straight into weekly Pilates with Helen Douglas and Shape Note singing, both at the West Hill Hall.
There will be more singing, dancing, swimming, sailing, and creating to come.
Growing Old(er) Disgracefully by
Corinne Sweet
Psychotherapist, writer, broadcaster
The Whistler 