The thing about weekends in Brighton is that you can't reasonably expect them to end before Tuesday. Yes, that's right, I'm still here, but only because I felt that having had less than ten years experience of getting to work on her own, Lisa could probably do with someone to walk her there at the crack of dawn, then meet her at 4:30pm and walk her home, just in case she forgets the way. Or is kidnapped by international terrorists hell bent on obtaining her recipe for scrambled eggs. You can't be too careful, and if there's one thing I've learnt about Brighton, it's that the place is a mecca for dodgy characters of all descriptions.
Which explains why I feel so at home.
And why Lisa's lived here all her life.
All good things must come to an end though, and with the European elections on Thursday it's important I return to Shotley Gate and sift through my pile of leaflets to decide who to vote for. Incidentally, I received one last week from the BNP, which featured the winning slogan "My Dad's not a racist!". I can't help thinking that if you find yourself having to state that in your advertising, you've probably lost already. I'm more tempted by the UK Independence Party, and their slogan "We talk, U Kip". Well ok, that's not their slogan, but it should be.
Anyhoo, having experienced the joy of standing in a charity shop whilst a middle aged man asks if they have any corsets he could use in his drag act on Wednesday night, I feel I'm ready to leave Brighton, so I'm returning home tonight. No really, I mean it this time. And besides, I'd been here three days before anybody bothered to tell me that the time limit on parking in the street outside is two hours. So I don't want to push my luck. And I've succeeded in wangling three packets of Polos out of Lisa's mother, which is frankly all I came for. So hang out the bunting, I'm coming home.