I had a couple of friends from London down this weekend, they stayed in the B&B above my studio and loved it. Helped by the owner making them incredibly welcome.
Last night we went for a couple of drinks and a meal in the only restaurant that could accommodate us - the food was actually OK but I hated the place - and I hated the fake Mariachi band who turned up half way through and emptied the restaurant (there were harsh words - I won’t be going back)
My friends are in publishing, we went to see The ladybird exhibition at the De La Warr and the re-hang and Edward Burra at the Jerwood gallery - all good. By some freakish turn of events (bear with me - it’s complicated) I found myself at the centre of a literary intrigue of sorts. Yesterday morning I bumped into someone I’ve not known long in Bexhill who knows my friends - he’s a well know writer. We met up later in the day - he was meeting friends who by coincidence are near neighbours of mine - I know the bloke, his dogs HATE mine and we have to keep our distance, This bloke turms out to be another well known writer - but to make it worse - his wife - who we all accidentally bumped into on Sunday at the Jerwood, is a spectacularly famous booker nominated author. She wasn’t keen on getting to know me. They live up the road. This all sounds contrived, like bad fiction. It was made harder for me because i don’t really enjoy fiction - I was an intellectual outcast. I didn’t let it get me down.
Last night - The Fall played in Hastings, depending on who you spoke to - they were either very good or very bad. One of my friends posted a photograph of what she insisted was Mark E Smith’s vomit on her Facebook page. I didn’t ask any questions. Additionally the band Stornaway played in Bexhill, and an American singer Songwriter called Ryley Walker also played - and there was a design event I’d planned on going to at another venue - and tonight there are a couple of bands on - all good, but I’m at home - delighted to have spent the time with really good friends and not worn myself out on ‘entertainment’.
A friend just sent me a photo - he’s in a pub in town and a man is dancing on his own in the middle of the room. I’ve mentioned him before - he’s about 50, wears hot pants or tanga briefs in neon colours etc - today he’s dressed as a schoolboy and wearing a red scarf, and pole dancing. That’s Hastings.