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Brighton Life

Pizza Girl’s St Leonard’s Diary

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PG is presently NON DOM whilst on secondment to Hastings Borough Council where she is using her expertise and dynamism to support the regeneration of St Leonards by the Sea. Her trusty house guest Biggins, as usual, is at her side.

March 11 
Moving my third home to St Leonards by the Sea has probably, definitely been one of the best decisions I have ever recently made. It’s as if St Lens was waiting for me to arrive. Jointly we are as one, together, partners just like Tintin and Tonto. I had absolutely no pre-conceptions about St Lens I hadn’t even heard of it other than from the non-award winning Gordon Busbridge TV ads. I guessed it would be a spiritual, tranquil seaside retreat but ‘oh contraire’ my life here has been a social whirl from the Get-Go. I have viewed, been schmoozed, and ‘canaped’ around more new galleries and private openings than I could ever have dreamt of. Advising galleries comes so naturally to me. As usual, I was in terrific demand.

March 16
Norman Road is surely the best kept shopping secret this side of Bexhill and the other side of Dungeness. A gorgeous eclectic mix of stylish, practical, weird shops that Brighton would die for. I also adore the adjacent Kings Road too, as well also. Apparently, it has just been modernised, but the planners have  managed to retain an impressive, authentic down-at-heel 1960s Notting Hill ouvre. I can hardly wait for those barmy summer evenings promenading with my weekend celeb house guests. The likes of Ramsay, Bragg and Clary will go mad for the earthy charms of this darling thoroughfare. This is authentic 70s Seven Dials nostalgiaville wonder and the rumour of a Tin Drum opening ices the biscuit.

March 18
As a top Staffordshire Bull Terrier breeder myself, as I sit serenely sipping my double brewed tea outside Kings Road’s Little Lil’s Café, I feel like I’m in paradise. Died and gone to cloudnine. Surely, this is the Staffee capital of the world? A trophy dog catwalk watching nirvana of a place. The Council really should promote these assets more. I will raise this in my monthly text report to them.

March 20
From knowing no one, within days I have got to know everyone; well, to be exact, everyone has got to know me. A friendlier, earthier, exciting place there couldn’t be, you can forget Hove.

March 21
Housemate Biggins has settled better than I had possibly hoped for, he has joined the local Pimped Bike Chapter, developed a healthy appetite for Doner Kebabs and has made friends with some ‘local characters’. Biggins meets his new bestest chums every day at the sea-front shelters where they are mostly engaged in research for the Hastings Observer’s Guide to Super Lagers. They are writing a sixteen page pull-out supplement. Biggins’ evenings are spent at the Robertson Road Kebab Hut where he recently appeared in a Police CCTV ‘training’ film.  I am so happy the move has been so positive for him. Ever since he got back from the jungle, Biggins has tended to live under my shadow’s laurels, as well as in my home.  Biggins says he is almost a local now and at only £147,300 for a four bedroom three reception Victorian house he might even stay. (You can’t even get a West Hill studio for that.)

March 22
My own nine bedroom seafront home, given to me by Hastings Council, is looking amazing. I didn’t even need to send to London or Brighton for all my hand-made wallpaper and interior designer needs. A nod from moi meant many artists have already followed, de-camping here and buying up derelict pubs and empty shops to set up workshops.
They really are true fine arty regenerist pioneers. These DFLs (Down from London) and OFBs (Over From Brighton) are the exciting new breed of St Leonardatonians, true cappuccino culturians. Real exploratory, regeneration foot soldiers. What’s more, for each new Hackney, Hoxton and Brighton arrival, I earn hefty Arts Council cash bonuses. For me it’s win, win, win here on the regenerative front line.

March 28 
A wonderful, fantastic, marvelous, brilliant, extraordinary first St Leonards’ month. My only regret is that I have only been able to actually spend five whole days here so far, and have officially just one month left on my contract. I have an inevitable hunch that as part of their sustainable development, regeneration, neighbourhood renewal strategy, the local council will be begging moi to stay! Secretly I’m missing the West Hill Dials so very much, but this is important work and little St Leonards by the Sea needs me so desperately.

Pizza Girl’s work in St Leonards is sponsored by the South East Development Agency (SEDA), Hastings Borough Council (HBoC), The Arts Council (TAC), The British Library (TBL) and the Caravan Club of Great Britain. (CCLGRTBRTN).

PG says : Copyright PG – absolutely, definitely, no reproduction in any form without written permission from PG

The Arts

Bobby Dearest

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Huddling on the darkening staircase, hugging a relaxed black bob of a cat, called Bobby, she contemplated the approach of her birthday. She searched his eyes for reassurance to the tune of her mother’s voice from the kitchen, calling “Don’t let that cat breathe in your face.” She thought, that’s not fair, I’m breathing in his face. His eyes became slits of green and one lid closed totally. He winked at me, she exulted, and tickled gently behind his ears to the rhythm of the purr which drowned out her mother’s repeated warning. He was called Bobby, because he was given to her by Great Aunt Alice, who lived in Brighton; and although her mother had hidden the kitten in her double-breasted buttoned winter coat as they passed through the barrier at Hastings station, the inquisitive animal had thrust his nose out between the buttons and was espied by the ticket collector, who demanded a shilling as the fare for transporting this cheeky little face from Brighton. (Bob used to be slang for a sterling shilling.)

He was her confidant, lover, and dearest dear. Several times his exile had been threatened because when a storm blew up, Bobby would tear up and down the hall corridor and stairs, finally jumping onto a banister near a dividing wall and, putting paws either side of the wall, claw madly at the wallpaper until it was shredded. The ensuing thunder and lightning was nothing to her parents’ fury. She soothed her dear friend, thinking his manic behaviour was on account of the fact that, as a kitten, he had fallen through the banisters from the top floor to the one below, and as her father laughingly told the story, “He landed on his head – not mine, the cat’s.” Nobody had actually seen it but it was an excuse for his extraordinary behaviour – the cat’s, not the father’s.

Not that she thought it extraordinary. He was her friend, and he could do no wrong. Arriving home from school one day, she could not find the person for whom she always looked first, but was not overly worried, because he was allowed out the back, over the roofs to the greenery growing at the base of the cliff at the back of the house. At tea-time the two brothers nearest in age to her were sniggering, joking and laughing about death and disappearances. Her mother hushed them. Missing Bobby, she became suspicious, “Where is he?” she shouted. It was explained that the doctor had suggested, considering Frank’s asthma, that the household would be better without a cat. So Bobby had been dispensed with at a nearby vet’s. She viewed the world with dismay and wilted under the avalanche of information and her brothers’ raucous teenaged exchanges.

Sylvia Alexander-Vine