Sirena Bergman |

On 20 April The Independent newspaper launched its Independent Live! Election debates in Brighton. It also launched a re-vamped version of the paper which went free for three weeks in the run-up to voting day. I attended the debate and, in all honesty, it very nearly swayed my vote. Yet, although the turn-out was good, I couldn’t help noticing a lack of young people at the event. I took it upon myself to stand around Brighton Station and bully every person that came in or out looking between 18 and 25. I asked them if they were going to vote, who they were going to vote for, and what the name of the Brighton Pavilion candidate for their party was. I have to say that the majority of the people I encountered who had a clear idea of what party they were voting for did not know who their MP would be should they win. I realise that Brighton is perhaps not the most political of areas, yet if we pride ourselves on our culture of social diversity, artistic excellence and personable tolerance, wouldn’t it follow through to be engaged in the aspects of politics that most affect our daily lives?
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The other day I woke up to the sound of rain pounding down on my window. I opened the curtains and examined the sky in the hope that a speck of blue might instil some hope in my outlook for the day. That was when I saw a lonely white wooden chest of drawers which had been abandoned outside the Adrian Robbins furniture shop in Guildford Road. I quickly enlisted a Helpful Man to drag the heavy drawers into my bedroom. However, as soon as it was there I knew it was too big to fit in the room without making it look like the Ikea warehouse for odd furniture. Unfortunately, I was in love. I spent the rest of the day re-arranging every one of my belongings in order to accommodate the new addition, and as I did so I began to realise how few of my things I’d actually bought in a shop. I have a bookcase that I found in the street at Seven Dials; a mirror that I bought for £2 at a car boot sale; a 1970s record player with a matching amp and speakers that was lovingly assembled for me via eBay, Snooper’s Paradise and various charity shops with huge, dusty vinyl collections. Then there are my ornaments and paintings – my happy stuff – which seem to somehow draw me in to the perfect place at the perfect time. And don’t even get me started on my books. At a birthday party the other day a friend asked me where I bought my bag and I told her it was yet another charity shop purchase. She looked bewildered and said: “Every time I ask you where you got something you say a charity shop but whenever I go in there everything is ugly and smells bad.”
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