Latest 7 magazine

L7 is searching for a new local voice – and it’s providing a fascinating opportunity to find out what’s on your minds. Over the next few weeks we’ll be printing some of the submissions.
First out of the post bag this week…
Rosie Gifford, 39, Brighton

Two years ago, in the middle of the night, I had an epiphany. I needed to move to Brighton. After eight years in the middle of rural France, slipping further and further in chutney and waking up with black teeth from boozing red wine, I had to get out of the end of the road. There was a new restaurant sign in our village saying, in English, ‘we do French meals here’. That did it for me.

My grandma had a B&B in Clarence Square. She moved here with her second husband Tony, thirty years her junior. They had met in a loony bin in Wales, both having drunk far too much. Tony, aka Old Elvis, could be found in all the dodgiest pubs. Their dog, Boyo terrorized the neighbourhood, sh****** everywhere; back in the days when he could. He not only ate his dog food, but also his dog bowl. Once, while Tony was asleep, Boyo ate the watch from his wrist and Pammy swore that, when she put her ear to Boyo’s belly, she could still hear it ticking.

There were few paying guests even at the beginning; by the end they only had two foreign students who never paid any rent at all. Pammy was too polite to ask. She liked having young people to talk to about Camus, Schopenhauer and investing in sugar. Pammy was a communist chain-smoker, would set her hair on fire frequently and thought everyone should smoke. She would fall asleep with her mouth and legs open with a rug round her waist, no knickers. The laugh we had going to see her.
My dad has history here, too. Paul McCartney’s house on the beach front was dad’s childhood home. I only bring that up in conversation when I’ve had a few, once even saying Sir Paul McCartney’s house for added effect, but my husband has banned that now.

I’m so excited because my nine year old fella is playing for Brighton and Hove Albion. I am not a WAG with a bag, but a MAG or NAG or even just a BRAG. I often do the swimming, Starbucks, library, Carluccio’s swoop with my two year old Apricot Boo Boo Bottom. No-one ever seems to complain about quite how many of us there are about town. Just look in the window of Starbucks on North Street and count those mini bald heads.

The roots are re-growing here – it’s better than watching them grow in my hair in the middle of nowhere in France. I’ve even dusted off my high heels that used to be door stops. Best move I’ve ever made.

This entry was posted on Monday, January 11th, 2010 at 2:08 pm and is filed under Columnist Idol!. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.