Perfect Day / Albert Camus

Perfect Day

Lewes Garret 9.33am. A beautiful Sussex day. Phew, what a scorcher! – as we used to say on Fleet Street. I slept like a log. Last night I was so tired I merely up to my darling in bed and, after obsessing a little more about John (how could I judge him so wrong?) I fell into a deep and restful sleep until around 9am, when my Beloved and Chloe were setting off for Oxford.

They are going to a memorial service for a chap who had the glorious name of Michael Gearin-Tosh. He was an English don at the University of Oxford, until his death from cancer in August last year, and taught Francesca when she was studying there from 1981-84. I hope they have a nice day. Chloe says she is tagging along to meet some learned people!

Francesca plans to meet a group of friends in the King's Arms (the KA), Oxford, including a card called Gates who once set up a detective agency with the young Chris Evans!

I hope they have a riotous time, although I am glad I am not going. Most pleasant as these people are, they do not inhabit my world and I do not dwell in theirs.

And, so, the day stretches ahead. . . Marina has been on her Game Boy and, when she is washed and ready, I shall take her out to the seaside for the day. I also want to drop by the offices of the local newspaper, the Sussex Express.

I picked up a copy yesterday and, lo and behold, there was a photograph of Marina meeting Camilla! We were all so proud!

When I realised, I immediately returned to Lewes Station shop to buy another four copies. I must get hold of the original print. If we get it framed, it will make a great present for my parents (and we can hang one on the wall here, too).

Felt quite ill after tea yesterday. My workload, all the drugs et cetera had got on top of me. My chiropractor thinks I am getting better, although it is not at any great rate. While she was pummelling my back yesterday, she told me an amazing story about her dad.

Apparently her placid old man, a former pilot, had got into a road rage incident with another old age pensioner. The other crone had been driving on the dad's tail and received the traditional two-fingered salute.

When the dad rolled up at a nearby service station, the other OAP had appeared like an old bat out of nowhere and started battering his windscreen with a walking stick –so powerfully that the cane broke in two.

Instead of doing the sensible thing of driving off (NEVER get out of the car where road rage is concerned!), the dad got out to try to tackle the raging oldster.

Predictably enough, he himself was battered and retreated to the car and drove off. What happened next is a little unclear in my mind, but somehow the other guy, who later said he was disabled, fell and injured himself.

He went to the accident and emergency department of a local hospital and then made a complaint to the police about my back doctor's dad.

While I was lying almost naked in her surgery yesterday, she told me the state of play was that he was being interviewed by the police with an expectation – plighted to him by his solicitor - that he would be let off with a caution.

But, no, when my chiropractor telephoned her dad, it seems he is going to be charged with assault. How very unfortunate!

It has turned into the battle of the Victor Meldrews!

Lewes Garret, Living Room. 7.48pm. It has been an idyllic English summer's day. There are so few of them that when one arrives of a weekend it is a special treat indeed.

Marina and I started off by going into Lewes, soaking up the sun and heat at the Farmers' Market and visiting her favourite bookshop, Bags of Books.

I offered to buy Marina a gift and, after much consideration, she expressed an interest in a beautiful cuddly toy dog with a pretentious name, associated with a new children's book.

Although he was a tenner, I bought it, and the little fluffy dog was immediately rechristened 'Ralph' by Marina. I knew he would bring her such great pleasure.

After stuffing myself full of liquid Nurofen to arrest more back pain, we traipsed off on the train to Hastings which was more beautiful than I have ever seen it. And it was not even particularly busy.

The weather was Mediterranean – turquoise sea, cloudless deep blue sky, intense heat on the face. It reminded me of Cannes in the late spring. God, how fantastic!

I let Marina go on the mini-rollercoaster at the seafront fairground and took plenty of photographs of her, and the seascape. I realised I was equipped with three cameras: my 1961 Kodak Retina, 1970s Nikon FM with superb 200mm and 28mm lenses, and my 2005 mobile phone camera, which hardly represents progress. Nonetheless, I took pictures with the full trinity during the course of the day.

We lunched at the Neptune, the best fish and chip restaurant in Hastings. The food is always superb and the service divine. The Chinese waitress even refilled Marina's strawberry milkshake gratis when she finished it quickly.

After lunch we walked past the tall, black fishermen's huts and the whitewashed yacht club onto the rocky shore. The sun was clearly going to people's heads. As Marina and I neared one young couple, I could see undergarments rapidly being pulled back on.

As we passed, the girl lit up a cigarette, rather confirming my suspicion of what she had just been enjoying with her boyfriend.

Marina, thankfully, was oblivious to this activity, looking out to sea and in the rock pools. A few paces on I saw a completely naked man, lying face down. I made sure Marina was seaward side of me, so she could not see.

But when a few more yards on, I found another naked man, this time lying on his back, with a visible prezza the size of a cocktail sausage, I decided it was time for me to escort Marina back to the promenade. Why do these inadequate men feel the need to expose themselves to the general public? It beats me.

As we were halfway across the rocky beach on our retreat, I glanced over at Marina and asked, 'Where's Ralph?' She went into a total panic. Her new toy doggy was missing, and we had no idea where it was.

Calmly I said she must have dropped it, probably as she had been clamouring down the boulders to the beach (where a toddler got himself trapped last week), and we should carefully retrace our steps.

Sure enough, I espied Ralph at the bottom of a rock. Marina was elated, but I insisted on him travelling on in my camera bag, with his little furry head peeking out, for fear of a repeat performance.

We must have walked miles along the prom. Marina went on another ride and then we checked out the pier. I have never come across such a broad boardwalk. It is so wide!

There is even an old-fashioned shopping mall on it, with real stores (such as one selling computer accessories). Pictorially it is wonderful, partly because it has run to seed and speaks of a bygone age.

Marina and I dropped into the pier cafe/bar – with alcoholic and non-alcoholic counters on opposite sides of the little room – for a cola and limonade (from the alcoholic bar).

We walked off the pier and on down the prom to the building that looks like a ship; then turned about and headed back to the station.

I had thoroughly enjoyed the sun (under factor 30 sun cream, like Marina), and going rather red (I never brown).

We got home at around six and immediately went out again to the supermarket, buying salad, gravadlax, sausages, cheese, and bottled beer. Made a mega-salad, which was rather tasty, with plenty left over for Francesca and Chloe.

Then, another excellent episode of Dr Who – starring The Devil - and darling Marina went to bed. I love taking her out for the day.

As I sip my second Grolsch and see the sun gently go down over our Sussex garden, I cannot help but reflect it has been the Perfect Day.

Albert Camus (Flashback to Thursday, 1 June 2006)

Lewes Garret. 10.14pm. Totally effing knackered! I have driven 370 miles today and been at the wheel for more than eight hours, in between working frenetically in bright Welsh mountain sunshine and heat.

I loved the drive there from the Leamington Garret – you could see the Brecon Beacons from about 50 miles away, and, motoring westward, the landscape became more and more beautiful. I stopped for breakfast at a garage cafe straight out of the 1950s. Forget Little Chef, this was the Real McCoy.

At the event, I met a very pleasant photographer called Mari. For some reason I told her about my bag having belonged to the French writer Albert Camus (pictured at the top of this page).

To my amazement she said: 'I did my dissertation on Albert Camus while studying history in France.' Coincidence piles on coincidence. Extraordinary!

Despite this excitement, I have not really recovered from the incident with John. I think he has treated me despicably. Last week he emotionally blackmailed me into agreeing to pay half of the bills (even though I am only at the Leamington Garret for two or three nights a week) by pleading poverty.

I have never displayed such generosity , kindness and tolerance to anyone and then been treated so shabbily. I feel my friendship has been utterly betrayed; my trust in John absolutely abused.

Felt quite ill when I got home. I am deeply wounded by what has happened and have not been sleeping well. John came in at 1.30am this morning awaking me in the process. He made a hell of a noise, slamming doors and panting up the short flight of stairs.

But enough of this misery, tonight is the eve of the launch of Oliver's Poetry.

I am not ready but, tired as I am, I have been trying to fix up the blog, and put up a poem by me and one by Byron. Byron is my hero; Byron my spiritual friend (see: Byronic.

Unusally, Francesca is not here – she's on a girls' night out. Must get on. Tomorrow is The Beginning.

Oliver's Poetry