Emily Sargent is a Brighton newcomer
I moved to Brighton 12 days ago having been faced with the decision, as a recent out and out lesbian, of whether to study down here or in Sunderland. I chose Brighton based on the homosexual ratio – as someone from Newcastle who has had a look around the gay scene, I didn’t have high hopes for Sunderland. That one night consisted of sitting and watching a man in a mustard crop top gyrate aggressively on an otherwise empty dance floor to Diana Ross’ ‘I’m Coming Out’. There might have been a certain poignancy to the scene had his otherwise oblivious friends and family been gathered for the announcement – alas, we were his only audience.
Also, I imagine if that night’s wardrobe were an indicator of his day-to-day fashions, his mother probably had an inkling he would not be bringing home a wife. The DJ seemed spectacularly unenthused by his job, although sporadically entertained himself by making fun of my jumper over the microphone. I recall “crew of Deadliest Catch” was a comparison bandied about. Apparently Kate Moss had been a little less authentic when it came to choosing a vintage cable knit.
“Every morning I pass a street masseuse and a man selling charcoal safari sketches”
Anyway, based on my enjoyment of seaside novelties and the hope of living somewhere a bit more varied, I moved here.
The new flat is right in the middle of town, which has been trying at times, since particularly on a Friday or Saturday night it sounds as though the Battle of the Somme is happening in my room. But, whilst I was out yesterday evening trying to find and attack the man who plays electric guitar under my window, I reasoned that the perks of being near bars and restaurants do ease the pain.
You certainly get a good variety of things on offer. Example: every morning on the way to college I pass a female street masseuse and a man selling charcoal safari sketches. What could be handier, I always muse – everyone likes a roadside shiatsu, and resume my ongoing haggle over the majestic giraffe portrait. And, if I time my journey home well, I can join in with a ghost tour.
(I assume that’s what it is – I’m too nervous of being exposed as a freeloader so I hang out at the back; it could just be a really popular man with a top hat and a hand bell.) The only thing that has really alarmed me so far, following a ‘welcome warning’ from my new housemates, is that we occasionally get seagulls in the kitchen.
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