The Brighton Morning

By Jim Burke

My Seinfeld ring tone woke me up at about nine in the morning. That's pretty early for me. I've been getting better at getting up in the mornings, but when you don't have to, well, you don't have to. It was Dave. He'd just finished a painting and wanted me to cast my not-too-critical eye over it.

I showered, got on my bike and headed over. He handed me a cup of tea as soon as I'd walked in the door and guided me to his room, against the far wall of which stood his painting. It was pretty good. Personally I'm dead against surfing, I'm from London and it all seems a bit 'West Country' to me, but realistically it's probably because I can't swim and I'm just jealous, but that's a story for another time. A small blue figure in the centre of the canvas glided along a well-rendered wave of thick acrylic.

I congratulated him on his achievement, we finished our tea and we headed for the beach. I think this may have been the morning that I decided not to move back to London.