I had a letter yesterday from David Van Day, former chart-topper, Asda-shopper, and arch enemy of hamster-faced scouser Sonia, now close personal friend of David Cameron and prospective city councillor for the Nasty Party. To be honest he didn't just write to me, he sent a hand-delivered, personally-addressed card to everyone on the electoral register in East Brighton. That man is desperate for power.

So having plastered the front of the card with a full-sized mugshot of himself (which is enough to put anyone off) he's chosen to take up the rest of the mailing with a personally written letter stating the many good reasons why we should all vote for him. Which would be fine if the man could actually write. Unfortunately the whole thing is so poorly written it's barely coherent, and would be drowned in a sea of red ink if it went within half a mile of a secondary school English teacher. And if you don't believe me, click here.

You'll immediately notice that the man's proud of the fact that he was actually born in East Brighton. And proud of the fact that he can't spell "actually". Or "whose". And doesn't know how to use an apostrophe. But that aside, my favourite bit is this...

Just who are these people encouraging rats by collecting refuges? I'm 100% against domestic violence, but even I feel it should be strictly one person, one refuge. There's no need for people to build up vast collections. It'll only attract vermin. Someone should tell those lefties on the council before it's too late.

[Note: On 21/3/07 I decided to expand the above into an article for The Kemptown Rag. Mainly because I spotted another three spelling mistakes I'd previously missed. So to read the new improved version, complete with gratuitous burger-flipping reference, click here.]

Anyhoo, I have an important Mother's Day outing to Hove dog track to prepare for, but in my absence I've foolishly allowed my Big Sis access to this blog for what may (or may not) become a regular feature over the next few months. So I'd just like to publicly distance myself from the next post. Unless it turns out to be good, in which case I'm right behind her, and taught her everything she knows.

The new issue of The Kemptown Rag is out today (that's not me on the cover), and features an edited version of last Monday's blog post. Well I say 'edited'. I basically just cut out all references to Lisa and pretended I'd gone on my own. It's a bit like being in a boy band - you have to appear clean-cut and 'available' to attract the female fans.

I'm on page six this time, which seems to be headed 'Computer Corner' (they must have known I wrote it on my laptop), but more interesting is that the letters page features an entertaining and informative epistle on local parking regulations from Councillor Warren Morgan, who commented on my blog last Thursday. The man gets about a bit. Anyone would think he was looking for votes.

Anyhoo, I bought The Argus yesterday in yet another misguided attempt to find someone willing to part with minimum wage in return for my services. My favourite advert was for a 'Temporary Smoke-Free Implementation Officer'. I presume they say 'temporary' because if you tell someone to stop smoking, they'll only light up again the moment you leave the room.

But even more appealing than being a Cigarette Nazi was this one...


I'd be no good at the actual job, but I know where I can get one heck of a reference.

Is it just me, or is there something different about this place..? I can't quite put my finger on it...

But talking of things which look different...


I think I may have missed a bit. Her leg's the same width as her body. But hey, it works for Nicole Richie.

Anyhoo, when I'm not eyeing up my cat's short, fat, hairy legs, I'm spending last night on the fringes of Hove, where Lisa and I baby-sat her three nephews while their parents went back to school for remedial lessons. Or a parents' evening. One or the other. The highlight for me came about half an hour into the adventure when Nephew Number Two announced in a determined voice "I want to kill Lisa!". I told him I know how he feels, and advised him to go and lie down until the urge passes, before realising they were playing Metroid on the Nintendo and he'd just blown her up with a death bomb. It seemed to give him quite a lot of pleasure though. I might try it.

I had a knock on the door yesterday afternoon from a pair of very nice ladies (I don't think they were lesbians, but this is Brighton so I can't be sure) inviting me to come and "live in a peaceful new world". I was tempted to tell them it would be a lot more peaceful if they hadn't knocked on my door, but I didn't. Mainly because they know where I live, and might send round a hitman from the SAS (Salvation Army Service) to rough me up.

Anyhoo, they eventually agreed to leave after I reluctantly accepted the leaflet on the left, and falsely gave the impression that I might consider going to a meeting at Kingdom Hall where they plan to reveal the identity of the greatest man who ever lived (and died). As it happens I don't need to go at all, because I already know the answer. It was the Pope, two years ago. The clue was in the question.

In other news, I learnt yesterday that the phrase "To be or not to be: that is the question, whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" is an exact anagram of "In one of the Bard's best-thought-of tragedies, our insistent hero, Hamlet, queries on two fronts about how life turns rotten."

Which is so unlikely that I actually spent five minutes checking.

Well as of yesterday evening Lisa and I are back home, having snuck around the M25 when no one was looking and avoided all the people who like to go there on a daily basis to crash their cars. Whilst away, I've received three items of fan mail via my website: one from "a lowly graduate who has as yet failed to convince anybody to exchange cash for her gainful employment" and is therefore refusing to give me any; another who comments "Very very scary how such a seemingly nice guy could be so dodgy! I wonder how his wife and kids are doing now, as she was completely insane beforehand" (I won't tell you who she was referring to); and a third who simply says "Your ace!".

Personally I wasn't aware I had an ace, and I certainly never managed to serve any when I used to play tennis, but I appreciated the comment nonetheless. Especially after coming to the attention of the council with Thursday's blog post.

So with the sound of compliments ringing in my ears, I went to the Jobcentre (sorry, Jobcentre Plus) this morning for my '13 Week Review'. Yes, it's officially three months since I declared myself mentally employable, and what a roaring success that's been. I've boosted the printer cartridge industry with my numerous CVs, and have enough rejection letters to make a handy doorstop. So it's about time the reviews came in. Today's interview was with a man named Justin, and got off to a good start when the bloke on the desk assured me that no one called Justin actually works there. His colleague backed him up, and the matter had to be referred to a third person, who finally confirmed the existence of Justin and agreed to let me meet him.

Twenty minutes later, Justin had confirmed that I'm doing quite well (as well as you can do without actually getting a job), and agreed to remove 'Shelf Filler' from the list of careers I'm actively pursuing.

And for those who think I'm joking...


The other two are apparently non-negotiable, despite my assurances that I'd rather have my own fort or aquarium. I was tempted to quote the woman I saw 13 weeks ago who having put down 'Office Assistant', added "Though no one's going to take you on", but Justin and I were getting on quite well at this point, so I decided to keep quiet and sign the form.

It was an uplifting experience anyway, so with the sun shining both outside the jobcentre and inside my heart, I met Lisa for lunch at the Strength Coffee Bar in St James's Street. Back in November I mentioned (and not for the first time) that they have the audacity to charge £1.30 for a cup of hot water with a tea bag in it. Well since then the place has had a bit of a make-over, and I'm pleased to say the days of £1.30 cups of tea are well and truly gone. They're now £1.50. I need a job just to pay the lunch bill.

As I write this, I'm actually in Chelmsford on my parents' reclining sofa, next to my hairless cat. She and I came up here on Thursday afternoon with Lisa, after my plan of telling her she could only come if she was ready in half an hour backfired when I found her standing at the door with a holdall at 2:30pm (Lisa, not my hairless cat). As usual we timed our journey perfectly to coincide with a major traffic jam on the M25, and arrived in Essex an hour later than planned. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've spent the last three days exploring the local area on foot while Lisa reads 'Notes on a Scandal' in bed. Yesterday I made it out of my parents' cul-de-sac and over the pelican crossing to the Boleyn Gardens, where garden designer Bella D'Arcy (a made-up name if ever I heard one) has been instrumental in creating an 'Elements Garden'. I'm quite open to the elements, but I didn't fully understand what it all meant. I sat on the bench in the photo above though and checked my text messages, so I did feel myself becoming one with nature.

From there I headed deeper into Beaulieu Park where you can currently buy houses like the one on the right for £945,000. Needless to say my parents don't live in Beaulieu Park. It's six bedrooms though, so personally I'd turn it into student flats and make a mint.

But when I'm not roaming the northern reaches of Chelmsford, and standing in Sainsburys watching Lisa buy 'Taste the Difference' Belgian Waffles and Pain au Chocolat, I've been busy entering a Radio 4 writing competition. Obviously I don't listen to Radio 4, but fortunately for me, Lorraine, my Scope Job Broker, does. She's supposed to be working tirelessly to find a job vacancy I'm capable of filling, but that's obviously easier said than done, so instead she's started listening to the radio on my behalf, and e-mailing me with competitions.

This one involves writing a 100-word story which features the words Bacon, Bodies, Experiments, Fire, Paper & Organic. Which leaves only 94 to write yourself. First prize is £50 in book tokens (why is it never a top of the range sports car?), and I'm confident of success. Just as long as they don't mind me leaving the 'i' out of 'papier mâché'.

Yes, with a bit of prudent clipping, you too can have a cat which measures just nine inches across and fits neatly into the palm of your hand.


I see it as the future of pet ownership for people with small flats.

And you're right, I do have a nice duvet. I chose it to match my cat.

But anyhoo, an air of nationalist pride is currently sweeping Brighton, as the Queen and Prince Philip are in town for the day. I know that because I was at the Jobcentre (sorry, Jobcentre Plus) this morning, and had to wait ten minutes to see someone because the woman who was supposed to be there had apparently "gone to see the Queen".

Anyway, having already endured a performance of the Bicycle Ballet at 11 o'clock this morning (did they learn nothing from my experience?) they're currently having lunch a mile from my flat (the Queen and Prince Philip, not the Queen and the woman from the Jobcentre), then at 2:45pm they're visiting the Whitehawk estate. So by 2:50pm their car will be on bricks and they'll be without their mobile phones.

I've finally found a job with the kind of hours I'd like to work. This one comes courtesy of the Jobcentre (sorry, Jobcentre Plus) website:


1.76 hours a week. By my calculations that's 105 minutes, which works out at 21 minutes a day. I reckon I could manage that. They're even offering a pension. You wouldn't want to be late though, or you'll miss your whole day's work.

Of course, it could be a misprint. They could mean 176 hours a week. Which is about eight more than I'm willing to work.

I read today that apparently one third of people who die from a second heart attack do so on a day when the atmospheric pressure falls or rises by more than 10 millibars. Another third die within two hours of waking on a Monday morning. And the final third die within two hours of having sex.

I don't know if that's true or not, but if I wake up next Monday and it looks like rain, there's no way I'm going near Lisa.

Talking of the weather, we're now well into March, the temperature's soaring, and Spring has well and truly sprung (don't argue with me on that point - it'll undermine this entire post). So here on the sunny south coast that can mean only one thing...

_

___________ Saturday _______________________ Today

Notice how she took up half the sofa at the weekend. Notice how now she... um... doesn't. Notice how I triumphantly managed to avoid cutting off her whiskers this time. And notice how the burning hot sun which was pouring through the window on Saturday afternoon seems to have mysteriously vanished since I shaved off all her fur. But hey, I'm sure vets charge less to treat hypothermia than sunstroke.

Yesterday was the first Sunday of the month, and naturally that could mean only one thing: 'Landscape by Lamplight II: Hove, Actually'. It might sound like a Merchant Ivory sequel by Richard Curtis (perish the thought), but this was in fact the follow up to last month's moonlit jaunt around the seedier side of Brighton's past. And unlike a Merchant Ivory film, I actually wanted to go to this.

Like February's guided walk, this hobble around Hove was led by local historian Geoffrey Mead, who turned up dressed in a black hat and coat looking like a cross between Johnny Cash and a rabbi, and describing the weather as 'balmy'. Though I'm not sure how he's spelling that. The official meeting point for the event was the floral clock in Palmeira Square, but having turned up five minutes early, Lisa and I (oh yes, I persuaded her to come) soon discovered that the actual meeting point was a bus shelter across the road. Geoff may be enthusiastic about his work, but even he won't stand about in the rain.

A bit of laughing and pointing at the man's hat and we were off, with Brighton's answer to Simon Schama leading us straight across the road, over a chained barrier, past the 'Keep Off the Grass' signs, and onto a prime patch of turf at the bottom of Palmeira Avenue. This, he told us, was the location of an exceptional archeological find, when an amber cup was discovered during excavations in 1852. Despite looking like half an Easter egg with a handle, this cup is important enough to have its own Wikipedia page, and is, according to Geoffrey, "magnificent". I'm not saying he's wrong, but the picture's above - you be the judge.

Interestingly enough, the site of the floral clock was once home to an ambitious iron and glass dome, designed by architect Amon Henry Wilds in 1832. Unfortunately he lost patience with his clients when they repeatedly altered his plans during construction and told him his central supporting column was an unnecessary expense. As a result he pulled out of the project, they removed the column, and the building promptly collapsed. Apparently Amon was so traumatised by the event that he went blind. Which is a shame, because if he'd gone on to design houses, he could have called himself Amon Homes.

Anyhoo, as it happens the glass dome wasn't the only thing which came tumbling down in Palmeira Square: the rain was pretty torrential by this point too. So having climbed back over the barrier designed to keep the likes of us out, Geoffrey led us south towards the seafront... and straight into a force nine gale. I'd like to pass on some fascinating facts about regency architecture, but unfortunately I was distracted by my umbrella turning inside out, then breaking, then my realisation that Adelaide Crescent was essentially one big lake and I was standing in it up to my ankles. So it's all a bit of a blur. But I do remember thinking that somewhere called Adelaide really ought to be warmer in March.

Fortunately we made it around the corner and into First Avenue, where we stopped at number 12 to look at the blue plaque on the right and admire the childhood home of Patrick Hamilton, writer of 'Gas Light', 'Rope' and (according to Graham Greene) "the best book written about Brighton", 'The West Pier'. Sadly the man was also an alcoholic, and by the 60s he'd had enough of 'Rope' to hang himself, resulting in his death from liver failure in 1962. The blue plaque was paid for by Penguin Books, who I'm sure did it as a mark of respect, and not in an attempt to shift a few copies of his last paperback.

From there we made our way north by northwest (which is one Hitchcock film Hamilton didn't write) into Grand Avenue, past the war memorial, and down to the southern end where Geoff informed us that the homes used to feature baths with three taps: one for hot, one for cold, and one for seawater, which was pumped in from giant tanks beneath the road. These tanks were sealed up some years ago. Possibly around the time they invented Radox.

Nearby is the Queen Victoria Memorial, created by sculptor to the stars, Sir Thomas Brock, more than a hundred years ago. Apparently it was due to be unveiled on the 25th of January, 1901. Which is a bit of a shame as Victoria died on the 22nd. Timing never was her strong point.

By now we'd absorbed quite a lot of history, and it was clearly having an effect on Lisa. As we made our way along the seafront, fully immersing ourselves in the rich atmosphere of Hove's glorious past, Lisa turned to me with a look of quiet contemplation in her eyes and said...

"Can we go to McDonalds after this?"

Naturally I said yes. It's not wise to argue with a woman who looks like the Grim Reaper. (That was her own fault for wearing a hood). (Although the scythe didn't help).

Turning inland again, we headed up through Osborne Villas which, according to the woman walking in front of me (who was not so much a guide as a gossip), featured the former home of Jordan's Mum. Strangely, that one didn't have a blue plaque.

From there it was back into Church Road, past the traditional ladies clothes shop 'Dresswell of Hove', followed a few doors down by the traditional men's toupé shop 'Rug World' (or possibly they just sell carpets).

Heading across Wilbury Road, where Freemasons go to die (apparently), we soon arrived back in Palmeira Square. Geoffrey ended by telling us that Brighton has more restaurants per head of population than anywhere outside of London and Edinburgh. I thought for a moment it was his way of inviting us all out to dinner, but sadly he just passed the hat around (literally) for a donation to 'The Friends of Hove Museum'. I thanked him and handed over a pound. I don't make friends easily.

Ok, this is getting slightly ridiculous now. On Saturday I sent off my application for the job at Brighton Sea Life Centre which, according to the job description, consisted entirely of "giving talks to the public, keeping the centre clean and tidy and helping in other areas". This morning I've received a letter back from Georgina Tunbridge, Front of House Manager, informing me that "after very careful consideration" they regret that my "qualifications and experience do not fit the profile for this position as accurately as the other candidates".

You can tell they mean it when they say they've given me "very careful consideration", because the letter's dated Monday, meaning they managed to turn me down the same day they got my CV. That's what I call efficiency. You can't hang about when you've got turtles to feed.

Interestingly, Georgina's impatience to get back to me a full two weeks before the closing date for the job, led her to spell my name wrong a total of three times and use the word 'process' when she meant 'proceed'. But I can forgive her that. It can't be easy having to tell someone they don't have the qualifications or experience to sweep your floors for minimum wage. I expect the pressure got to her.

So Lewes District Council don't trust me to clean their fort, the Argus don't want me to write for them, Cats Protection can do without my copywriting skills, and the Sea Life Centre aren't prepared to part with £5.35 an hour to let me near their fish.

It reminds me of my favourite episode of The Simpsons where Homer gets screwed over by a plumber, after which his chair breaks, prompting him to add them both to a lengthy piece of paper headed 'Homer's Revenge List'. I'm beginning to know how he felt. Of course, in that episode Homer resolves the situation by joining the Masons. Unfortunately, the way things are going, I don't think they'd have me.

It's always nice to stagger out of bed at five to seven (Lisa let me have a lie in this morning), turn on GMTV, and hear Andrew Castle say "Rachel Harrison is outside the hospital judged to be the worst in Britain", before crossing to their reporter standing 200 yards from my front door.

That's the bad news. The good news is that the report they're talking about only looked at healthcare services for children, so it doesn't affect me. The fact that my local NHS trust is in the bottom 10% nationally, and consists of a couple of nurses, some Calpol and half a bottle of Tixylix, is neither here nor there. Although Lisa's nephew turns eight on Friday, so we'd better hope we don't drop him when we give him the bumps.

But anyhoo, here are the latest photos of me and Lisa...

____________________

That's me on the left. I've grown my hair a bit.

Well ok, it's not. It's actually Paul Walker from 'The Fast and the Furious', but according to the celebrity face recognition software at MyHeritage.com, he and I are like two peas in a pod. Although I think his ears are bigger.

As for Lisa, she's apparently the spitting image of Tata Young, a Thai popstar who appears to be named after a potato. Funnily enough I can see the likeness there. I think it's the red devil horns which do it.

I do enjoy the little chats I have with Lisa before the sun comes up. Lying in bed this morning, I successfully managed to convince her that Sarah Kennedy (of Radio 2 fame) is the niece of JFK, and that Bernard Cribbins sang 'Right Said Fred' in 'The Railway Children'.

That'll teach her to wake me up at 6am.

If there's one thing I like to do in life, weather permitting, it's to send off a job application on a Saturday morning, and then take a walk along the seafront twenty-four hours later and find my future place of work being barricaded by militant animal rights protesters. It's what they call job satisfaction. Today's demo consisted of a few people with long hair and even longer banners campaigning to 'LIBERATE LULU'. Apparently she's been kidnapped by a group of music-loving dolphins who are fed up with hearing 'Shout'.

Well ok, that's not strictly true. Lulu is actually a 26-stone Green Turtle who's been in captivity since the end of World War II (making her the first female prisoner of war), having been brought to Britain as a baby to star in a soap commercial. I'm not making this up. Although possibly the BBC are. Anyhoo, Brighton Animal Action, who are just back from a 'Save the Pigeons' demo in Trafalgar Square (seriously), feel that despite being cuddled by students, and doing all she can to help rescue her Greek cousins, Lulu's not native to these shores, and should therefore go back to where she came from. Unfortunately she came from a small tank at Blackpool Tower, so that's not going to help. I've spent a week in Blackpool, and I'm telling you now, it's no life for an animal.

But that's not going to stop Brighton Animal Action. They're committed activists hell-bent on fighting for justice for all God's creatures, who will stop at nothing to see Lulu liberated. Although after half an hour it started raining, so they went home.

Anyhoo, that wasn't actually my main reason for going out today. What I really went to see was this...


Word had reached me (via Lisa's sister, who was finding it hard to stop laughing) that our good buddy Steve, who's currently squatting in Lisa's bedroom, but is moving to Margate in March, is spending the intervening weeks in the window of Oxfam. Apparently he only popped in to buy a book, but having agreed to put on a red nose and say cheese in the name of charity, he unexpectedly found himself on public display.

I won't reveal which one he is, but suffice it to say, the only one in less of a Comic Relief mood is top row, second from the left.

I've been staring at the computer screen for so long I'm now seeing starfish, but the good news is I've completed my application for the job at Brighton Sea Life Centre. Its success hinges largely on my ability to convince them that this...


... demonstrates a proven ability to work with underwater creatures. I may not have drawn the pictures, but I was in charge of writing the episode where they met The Poddington Peas. It was like the summit between Reagan and Gorbachev, but with more fish. Of course that was back in the days when I worked for Jim Henson. He was dead at the time, so wasn't aware of it, but I'm sure he'd have approved. I still have my notes for the episode featuring a mind-altering chemical spillage in Poddle Pond. Strange how it never got made.

Personally I thought this idea (from April 1992) was a goer too...


... but apparently not. I don't think I'd fully thought through the implications of underwater travel for vegetables. My handwriting hasn't improved in the last fifteen years either, but fortunately for my chances of employment, my CV is typed.