I’m sitting here looking out at a clear blue sky, crisp shards of light shining through  the trees. The buds of a few weeks ago have turned into vibrant green leaves. Everything is coming alive. The BBC weather app says that it’s an illusion, that the skies are going to turn grey, that it’s going to rain. I don’t believe it. I think the BBC app is just saying that out of force of habit. I’ve stolen a screen grab from another day and I’m going to say this is today. Easy.

May is the best time in our world. May is when the arts come alive. The Festival, the Fringe, The Great Escape (it’ll survive the virtue signalling protests), the Alternative  Escape. When the sun shines, there’s no finer place than Brighton in May. You can read about all that stuff on our website – it’s difficult to do that in a physical mag that comes out every two months. 

We’re a bit bigger this month – four extra pages! I know! In colour! I know! – with the usual mix of the wider, big picture stuff (the interview with new Labour parliamentary candidate Tom Gray, who seems a lovely bloke and is a welcome return to Labour’s values after the madness of the Corbyn years), and local stories, like the interview with Sarah from Solifiore, a lovely shop which we should all support.  Even The Gull About Town has returned for the summer.    

For the good folk of West Hill though, May means something else. May means the highlight of the social calendar, the time when the great and the good come together to celebrate themselves in all their self-reflecting glory. For the good folk of West Hill, May means St Nick’s Dog Show which this year falls on Monday May 6. 

Last year we entered Pickle Pie and, look, it’s a dog show. It’s a lovely, fun event. The sun shines. There’s Pimms. Everyone smiles. It’s the perfect antidote to this corrosive obsession so many people have with winning and competition. It’s purely about  pleasure and enjoyment, the joy of simple participation, the feeling of community, of taking part. 

Fourth. He came fourth. It took him weeks to get over that. He wouldn’t leave the house, let alone go to the dog park. The St Nick’s Pooch Pals sent a delegation. 

This year we’re playing the odds, taking more of a spread betting approach. We’re entering three dogs. Not saying anything, but if I were you, I’d put a few quid on Harry.