A COUPLE of weeks ago I decided to treat myself. The subtle signs of spring were peeping out across the Prunus padus in my street or, a bit more poetically: ‘Loveliest of trees, the cherry now is hung with bloom along the bough.’
It must be over ten years since I last visited the Lanes in Brighton. It’s a two-hour drive whichever route I take, so I set off at eight in the morning and was there by 10.15.
The Lanes, for those of you unfamiliar with the location, is an area immediately east of Brighton railway station: a collection of narrow streets criss-crossing north-south, and east-west; a crowded, conglomerated, cluttered, confusing, cosmopolitan cornucopia of what my mother would call junk shops, but which has been transformed into a tourist trap comprising antique emporiums, street cafes, vintage clothes shops, art shops, knick-knack shops – you name it. If you love nonsense, hustle and bustle, are captivated by old Beano annuals, and aren’t afraid to waste your time or your money, then get thee thither.
The one drawback of the Lanes is that their layout is like a casino. The topography of a casino (and the Westfield shopping centre too, if you want my opinion) is such that there are no points of reference or clocks; the effect being that you will wander round and round and not know in which direction you are facing, where you came in, where you are, or what the flipping time is. This disorientating configuration has been purposely engineered by behavioural psychologists, and the result is that once inside, you stay inside and – à la Viv Nicholson – spend, spend, spend.
I think I was in Trafalgar Street trying not to retrace my steps, but I had passed a lady with blue hair, dressed in what looked like an enormous antimacassar, about five times before I noticed a radiator shop. It was closed, but the display of radiators and the colours available grabbed my attention. I have a manky, 40-year-old panel radiator in my bathroom. If I replace it with something vibrant and stylish it will double the value of my house.
I stumbled off the narrow pavement into the crowded street, fumbling in my bag for a scrap of paper to write down the phone number and web address of the shop. My shoulder bag had got all tangled up as I fought with it to find a pen. The sun, reflecting fiercely off the plate glass window, was dazzling me. I was squinting at the shop sign and scrunching up my face, contorting my mouth and poking my tongue out. It must have looked to passers-by as if I was having a petit mal, because a middle-aged gentleman with a spaniel on a lead and carrying an Asda bag, hurried over to me. With an intense look on his face, he said: ‘Hullo?’
I was all flustered and I thought he was going to beg for money or make a grab for my bag, and I glared at him angrily.
If TCW readers can guess what he said next, you will win a prize. To be exact: your name shall be entered in the Jamnik Hall of Fame. Stop reading now and look away. Scribble your ideas on the back of a used envelope.
No cheating, now.
Faîtes vos jeux.
Are you ready?
* * * * * *
Mr Asda Man: ‘Hullo?’
SJ: ‘Gnnnnnnrrr.’
AM: ‘Do you speak English?’
SJ: (Long, suspicious pause) ‘Just about.’
AM: ‘Do you need help? Are you lost?’
SJ: (Gradually realising there is no imminent danger) ‘I’m just trying to get the phone number of this shop.’
AM: ‘So you’re all right then?’
SJ: (repetition, but no hesitation or deviation) ‘Just about.’
AM: ‘I thought you were in trouble. Do you know your way around the Lanes?’
SJ: (hesitation, repetition, deviation?) ‘Er – just about.’
AM: ‘It’s all over the place, here, isn’t it? Have a lovely day in the Lanes.’
SJ: ‘Thank you. I will.’
Well? Did you get it right? I am almost certain that had I been in Carnaby Street in London’s Soho I would have been completely ignored, or someone would have lifted my wallet. There is something quintessentially British about my encounter in the Lanes. No matter how bad things get in this country (and judging by the parking charges and the state of the roads in Brighton, things are pretty bad) I will never emigrate, as several of my school friends have done. If that makes me a hopeless loser with the most disgusting bathroom radiator in the Western Hemisphere, that’s just too bad. So be it.
