Mr Cheeky 2013-17 RIP

When something very bad suddenly happens, it can be very hard to cope with the resultant anxiety and fear. Then, when a second terrible thing subsequently occurs, the shock, pain and grief can be unbearable.

That is how I feel about the theft, on Sunday, 4 December 2016, and death, on Saturday, 28 January 2017, of our beloved ginger cat, Mr Cheeky.

Mr Cheeky was the most loving, charismatic, characterful and loyal cat that I have ever known. By sheer dint of personality, he ran his manor around Brunswick Street East, Hove, Sussex, with an iron paw. He knew everyone - and went everywhere. A crack in a doorway or an open window was an invitation to Mr Cheeky. He saw it as his catly duty to visit, engage with and entertain all the people in his territory - the three-and-a-half streets around our home.

There was a quiet dignity about him, an undeniable presence. Whenever I went out, strangers would come up to tell me stories about Mr Cheeky's visitations: how he had played with their small children, patiently sat in on band practices or picked up their previously timid puss to join his feline gang, prowling the streets of Brunswick. Never would they say he had come begging for food or been a nuisance.

The simple fact was Mr Cheeky loved people - and people loved Mr Cheeky. One of his many haunts was G-Whizz Cycles - an Aladdin's cave of a secondhand bicycle store - which Mr Cheeky loved to inspect on his rounds. The owner told me that Mr Cheeky had a remarkable confidence and fearlessness; he was proud of every square inch of his territory and, while always friendly and affectionate, no one could doubt that has was master of all he surveyed.

Mr Cheeky also loved other cats. He was a born leader - not a loner. He sought out like-minded felines and recruited them to Mr Cheeky's Army - for daytime fun and noctural manoevres. Most notable of his comrades was Django, a sleeky black cat who lived on the next street along with three daddies, all young musicians and graduates of the local pop music colleague, BIMM. Within days of us adopting Mr Cheeky, he became fast friends with Django. They would hang out together on street corners, go round to each other's homes for play dates - and drop into the local pub, The Bottom's Rest, where they would work the room and were greatly adored by clientele and staff alike.

When the three musicians moved out of their house and were unable to take Django with them, Mr Cheeky invited him to move in with us - and he has been happily living here ever since. Mr Cheeky and Django were in total harmony, although there was never any doubt who was top cat. Django played Sergeant Wilson to Mr Cheeky's Captain Mainwaring. Mr Cheeky would show him the way, however ill advised. And shy Django was happy to oblige, always allowing Mr Cheeky to eat first or instigate a game of chase. Whenever we went out, Mr Cheeky and Django would follow us like our shadows until, eventually, we gave them the slip on the edge of their territory.

We had got Mr Cheeky from Hove charity Lost Cats. I will never forget our first meeting. Going from cat to cat at the sanctuary, you received a mixed reception: some were painfully nervous, others bored. We were told that Arnie, as he was then known, had returned from an operation and would be tired. However, he made an enormous effort to be affectionate, and I immediately took to him. In the adjacent hutch, an identical ginger was even more enthusiastic. You could almost hear him say: "Take me home, Daddy, take me home!" Then we realised that it was the same cat who had merely nipped round the back to have a second go at enticing us. He succeeded and soon Mr Cheeky, as we renamed him, was coming home with us.

Mr Cheeky's backstory was that he had been abandoned and lived on the streets for a month or so before being handed into Lost Cats. The young Mr Cheeky was an adventurous and daring kit, anxious to explore and make his mark on the world. Indeed it took him some time for him to get used to his new territory and he did have a near-miss soon after he came to live with us. But once he had recovered, he became very streetwise on his patch, which is not busy with traffic, and really seemed to enjoy his life.

Of course, there were alarming moments, including the time he climbed more than 100ft. over a Brunswick Square house, sliding down scaffolding on the other side. Or when he entered a neighbour's house through the open upstairs window. But steady-footed and fearless, Mr Cheeky knew what he was doing.

He was a great comfort. When he first arrived, I was on gardening leave and then I spent more than a year working from home. Mr Cheeky was my constant companion. When he had been out for a patrol, he would stop at my desk upon his return - to give me a detailed update of what he had been doing, what was going on. It really was as if he was briefing me. And if I took a power-nap or siesta, Mr Cheeky would join me, often putting his head on the pillow and stretching out like a human. As my girlfriend Laura King has explained in her account of Mr Cheeky's life,  he loved to cuddle up.

When he disappeared in December last year, it was very worrying. Mr Cheeky had been sleeping on his favourite chair in our living room. It was the end of the evening and we were just about to close the cat flap. A few days on, it came out that Mr Cheeky had been stolen by a young couple - the theft had been recorded on the CCTV camera of the neighbour who lived opposite. Trusting and friendly as always, Mr Cheeky had been caught and, although he struggled to free himself, the evil couple took him away. Although we didn't know it at the time, by snatching him those scumbags had signed his death warrant.

Laura and I did everything in our power to publicise the case - to try to get him back. There was a lot of publicity, including on regional ITV and in Mail Online and The Sun online. For a day, Mr Cheeky was the most famous cat in the world, even appearing on a breaking world news website and an American news site. The media were on the whole extremely professional, although I was staggered by an Italian reporter from Brighton's fairly amateurish Latest TV who asked if the people who had snatched Mr Cheeky were not rescuing him (although, to be fair, the news editor, having viewed the tape, later phoned me to apologise for his reporter's misconduct).

But when the blaze of publicity failed to yield immediate results, lazy Sussex Police reacted by immediately closing the case. In truth, they had never attempted to investigate the crime or had any intention of doing so. To describe the call centre-based civilian assigned to us as an "investigator" is beyond a joke. The investigative skills of a baked bean were on display. These days, it appears, policing is all about doing it yourself.

We trudged on without any help from the police, searching for Mr Cheeky, putting up posters, handing out flyers and following up any leads that came our way. But it seemed there were a lot of ginger cats out there - and none of the tips produced Mr Cheeky.

As the weeks turned into months, I felt despondent. I wondered if Mr Cheeky was still in the country. I was mystified as to why the £300 we had offered had failed to generate a single hot lead. The CCTV footage had proved too poor to get a decent-quality screen grab of his abductors, but surely someone knew something about the crime?

Then - seven weeks and five-and-a-half days after he was stolen - came the terrible call.

Mr Cheeky had been found in Cromwell Road, less than a mile from home. Dead.

He had been run down by a motor vehicle, and, we believe, killed instantly.

Was Mr Cheeky trying to escape his captors? Had he panicked and run? We still don't know. He was killed trying to cross Cromwell Road at around 11am on Saturday (28 January 2017). He was so close to home, yet so very, very far.

A kindly passer-by took his crushed body to the nearest veterinary surgery, Wilbury Vets, who checked his micro-chipping, found it was Mr Cheeky, and called Laura.

We went to the scene of the crime, next to 100 Cromwell Road. It has been a hit-and-run driver. We talked to some locals who thought Mr Cheeky may have been living in one of the houses around there - big, bedsit-land abodes occupied by the peripatetic and anti-social. Laura told our Sussex Police "investigator" who true to form suggested that we investigate - more DIY complacent Sussex policing.

Today, devastated, we picked up Mr Cheeky's little body from the vets. They were very kind. Looking at Mr Cheeky's face, there was a grim determination, captured from the moment he died. He was trying to get away, but it was not to be. His trusting, daring nature had been his undoing in a world not as pure as his. A world sprinkled with evil people.

We took him home. Over the past seven weeks, I have often wondered if Mr Cheeky would return home. But I never imagined the terrible sadness that would accompany him.

We put him, shrouded in the blanket from the vets, on his favourite chair - the one he had sleeping on during that fateful night of his abduction - and lit some candles and incense and placed beside him the flowers kindly brought by our neighbours.

His friend, Django, came in. Django slowly walked up and put his nose near Mr Cheeky's. Joy turned to sadness and fear as the truth dawned: his companion was back but was gone. Ever so gently, Django walked backwards and sat in the hall, his fur standing on end, looking at his friend for the last time and saying: "Goodbye, old chum."

After an hour, we took Mr Cheeky to his final resting place where he was buried deep in the Sussex soil with my grandfather's Russian spade. Mr Cheeky was interred in his blanket and a Jump The Gun cloth bag, with full Mod honours.

We are going to plant a flower bed on his grave - the sort of display he would have loved to bask in.




 As we laid him to rest, I read:
 

We have entrusted our brother Mr Cheeky to God's mercy, and we now commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our frail bodies that they may be conformed to his glorious body, who died, was buried, and rose again for us. To him be glory for ever.

Amen

My voice was cracking and tears were steaming down my cheeks.

It is hard to credit the bad luck that befell the innocent, lovely Mr Cheeky. To be stolen. To be taken from those he loved most. To be mown down in his prime.

Mr Cheeky led a good life and I believe that for the years he was with us, it was a happy one. He was a little being with a big heart who has died far too young. His presence and spirit lives on and we will never forget him.

Mr Cheeky 2013-17 REST IN PEACE

I am a Mod

Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

The Who  

A hush fell on my fellow secret addicts and you could have heard a pin drop in the room as I made my ritualistic confession: "I am a Mod!"

I'd said it. There was no going back.

For many years I have harboured a desire to ride a Vespa scooter and wear a Parka jacket.

Early this year I finally succumbed and bought a Vespa PX125, a Mod scooter model that Italian manufacturer Piaggio has been making since 1977.

Since then, metaphorically, it has not been an easy ride.

My father, bless him, has always been an anxious chap, even in his prime.

When my brothers and I were growing up, he relentlessly drummed into us the extreme dangers of motorcycling.

It left a mental block, I guess.

And so it was that at the age of 52 that I first took to two wheels, at first having to negotiate myself through a hellish ordeal known as the CBT - not Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, on this occasion, but Compulsory Basic Training.

I can honestly say that my CBT was the most terrifying day of my life. I will not describe the horror of that experience in detail - I will leave that for another occasion.

Suffice to say, it was a miracle - or at least an extreme combination of diplomacy and spin - that the motorcycling instructor in Eastbourne reluctantly awarded me (and the other candidate that day) our certificates so we could ride.

As we left his workshops, he turned to us and said doubtfully: "You are going to be all right, aren't you?"

Unfortunately, I could only get through my CBT on an automatic machine. I just could not master the gears. I must have stalled a hundred times. (The other guy was better but had no road experience whatsoever.)

And, yet, my PX125 has manual gears.

For the first few months I found it so hard that I never left the conclave of my 'hood: a little circuit of Brunswick Street East, Lower Market Street and Waterloo, almost bereft of traffic.

The regulars at the Bottom's Rest public house were amused and then grew tired of me passing every five minutes at speeds between five and 11 miles per hour.

I never got out of first gear!

My Mod career would have been doomed if it were not for the intervention of Mr Cheeky (who else?)

Mr Cheeky had befriended Django, the local black cat, and it was because of this I met Nick, Django's owner, who was also embarking on life as a biker, albeit on a 125cc motorcycle rather than a scooter.

Nic, an urbane, young VATman and musician from Isle of Man, offered to take me out on a motorcyling trips to build up my confidence. He has been brilliant.

A few months on, I am still a little nervous on the bike, but I get around and was confident enough to join the thousands of other bikers at the Brightona rally last weekend.

I hoped to hook up with brother Mods but, on this occasion, they were in fairly short supply. The August Bank Holiday rally is their big day.

However, I take the view that all motorcyclists are my brethren and confidently nod to Hell's Angels and generally talk to anyone on two wheels.

Everyone is very friendly.

Nick and I met some very pleasant Harley Davidson riders including one gentleman who was almost seven foot tall and showed me his massive bike.

A lot of these guys ride 1,700cc machines - bikes with much larger engines than many motor cars.

Despite my Parka, one biker even let me sit on his new Harley. It was incredibly comfortable and heavy. Like a mobile sofa.

I liked the way that the stages at Brightona alternated between rock music and ska - to please both the rockers and the Mods.

In reality, there is no war between them any more.

They get on like a house on fire when they meet.

There were so many amazing, beautiful machines at Brightona.

Bikers are incredibly creative and hardworking at customising and preening.

You could spend the whole day just admiring other people's motorbikes.

I rode back in the rain, which I hate. It is uncomfortable and you have to keep a constant eye out for manhold covers that can unmount you in an instant.


I loved the day, though. I need to get more experience on the Vespa.

My mentor Nick has driven more than 1,000 miles on his bike in the time I have clocked up 100 on mine.

Scootering is also economical. Much less expensive on fuel that driving a car - very useful at this time of personal austerity.

I also love the sound of the two-stroke engine and the clunk of the gears that the 1970s design still makes - authentic signs of having achieved Mod-dom!

Early Autumn in Brighton and Hove

Winter, spring, summer or fall
All you got to do is call
And I'll be there
Yes I will
You've got a friend

Carole King


Early Autumn is always a favourite time of year for me - the cusp betwixt Summer and Autumn proper when one enjoys the best of both seasons.

This year, it seems to have been particularly wonderful in Brighton and Hove, possibly because I am at home, rather than away 12 hours to 14 hours every working day on a London commute.

Indeed, I have been at home for some five months now and have not missed going into the Smoke one jot. I feel a lot closer to nature.

In the mornings, I try to go for a cycle ride along the seafront before starting my day's endeavour. I never tired of the skyscape and seascape. It is different every day and often spectacular.

I work long hours at my desk at home and, in truth, it is a struggle. When you try to find work, you realise the UK is not out of the woods of recession yet.

However, I am spurred on by the card on my wall - "A winner is just a loser who tried one more time" - and the overall improvement in my lifestyle.

Sadly, though, I have had to give up lunchtime basketball.

My knees have become a real issue and for months have woken me up at night with searing pain. The basketball - a hard contact sport - made it much worse, so now instead I cycle every day, which makes it better, and take some painkillers and sleeping pills. I hope I will not need an operation.

It is funny the things you see while cycling around, such as a little doggy at the steering wheel of a car.

My new life has allowed me to do a lot of thinking.

I want a sustainable way of working which cannot just end at any moment.

I want to be able to do work I am proud of and which I enjoy.

I want to do the sort of work my kids would be proud of.

Life may be a bunch of compromises but there comes a time when you have to put your health and sanity first.

Therefore, I have to be very careful about my next move.

It is always interesting to see people's reactions when your situation and supposed status suddenly changes for the worse.

True friends are solid and there for you; most people, however, are not seen for dust, not wanting to be infected by whatever has felled you. In this parlous and fickle world, I don't suppose one can blame them for putting self-interest first.

My partner, Laura, has been a great comfort as has Mr Cheeky.

He has become a local character in his manor, the four streets near our home.

Mr Cheeky and his dear friend Django spend a good deal of time in the local pub, entertaining the regulars.

He also likes to have a good sleep on the pub mantelpiece.

One of the regulars told me a funny story about Mr Cheeky. He said that his bedroom is on the top floor of his house and that he first made Mr Cheeky's acquaintance when he slept in one morning and awoke to find Mr Cheeky sleeping on his chest.

Mr Cheeky had apparently somehow got onto the roof of his house, jumped down onto his balcony and climbed in through the open window, before settling down for a kip on top of him.

Now he regularly enjoys tuna at his house!

Another local I also did not know came up to me in the street that said that Mr Cheeky often visited her and her small children at their home. "They absolutely adore him," she purred.

Mr Cheeky seems to have an enormous appetite and gallops everywhere, like a tiny racehorse.

He has put on some weight and matured, making more effort to avoid moving cars and generally look after his health better.

Mr Cheeky and I put a certain effort into campaigning (online) for a No vote in Scotland - to keep the Union together.

He took the name, Mr McCheeky Wilson, for the period of the campaign, producing his own manifesto to persuade wavering Scots. I like to think we did our little bit for the United Kingdom.

The McCheekster has developed a desire to go on trips in Laura's car, jumping when the window is open and making himself comfortable, sometimes falling asleep.

I was almost late for an interview the other day because of having difficulty getting him out of the back of the car.

We go to see my dad and mum every fortnight.

To be frank, Dad's condition is not good. His memory is very poor now. Real confusion has set in.

All the same, I enjoy our trips to see him and Mum. They are coping well, despite all.

My brothers also visit regularly so that there is one of us there every weekend.

Nic comes over from Ireland as often as he can and it is always good to see him.

He and his wife have taken on a dog, like their late daughter Emily always wanted.

Life is a strange, hard-to-tame beast.

You can only make the most of the cards you are dealt.

The year will go into free fall: Hallowe'en, Bonfire, Christmas, New Year, the misery of January to March. It could be tough.

I heard from my old friend, Midders, the other day. He says he has a serious health scare (the usual one), so I am hoping and praying he gets through it.

The other day, I saw a very good poster on social media. It read: "Never let the sadness of my past and the fear of your future ruin the happiness of your present". Another one for the wall, methinks. Every moment is precious and sacred.

One piece of great news is that the Battle of Hove Park was won!

The political animal of a head teacher switched sides at the last minute in, my considered view, to save his own skin.

Hove Park School will not become a wretched Academy!

We were invited to a joyous victory celebration at comrades Natasha and Mark Steel's home.

It was great! We oldies chatted outside while the kids danced to Freebird and Let's Dance inside.

I was very impressed that the kids of today know these great classics of my era.

My moderate drinking regime is going very well. It is now 38 weeks since I last drank too much or had a hangover. Now I am in the groove, I am a truly committed moderate drinker.

Well, that's about it for now.

It is almost my bedtime. I will do the dishes, read a bit of my Saint novel (excellent bedtime reading) and get an early night.

I am off to Oxford bright and early tomorrow morning.

I just hope Mr Cheeky does not sneak into the car.

Graffiti of Brighton & Hove

'I only speak for myself, But the word around town, Is that something's shaking, In the underground.'  Michelle Shocked, 1988

Brighton & Hove is blessed by a whole bunch of talented graffiti artists and also by the fact that almost everyone seems to appreciate their work.

Perhaps it is partly because the citizens of the city are remarkably tattooed (something I am not into at all) that they take such a laid-back attitude to the inking of the buildings.


In my current workless state, I have taken quite a lot of images of the art. I do not intend to go on about it. It speaks for itself: imaginative, beautiful, sublime.

My life seems to be constantly changing. Four mouths ago I was still a suit. Now I am a jobless, wondering: "What next?"

For as long as I can remember, I have heard people complain about the Labour Exchange, aka Job Centre Plus.

However, I have found the people there delightful.

Once you have passed the heavies on the door, the staff are very interesting.

My adviser has an alcoholic dad who she cares for part-time. She loves Florida but agrees that people there eat too much.

She seems a very compassionate lady. I hope I can bring her some solace.

The Labour Exchange is also helpful with training. I am hoping to do a digital marketing course to enhance my skills.

I have sourced the course, filled out a form and, today, had an interview with a lady who wants me to complete a chunky verbal reasoning test online to prove I am capable of doing the training.

Since failing my 11-plus (an error that was quickly emended), I have never been very keen on verbal reasoning.

But, as the Labour Exchange lady said, it is just a hoop to jump through. Once I have done it, I will have to email the file to her and meet again for an assessment of my performance.

Obviously, bureaucracy has taken over the world.

Really, though, I don't care.

I will probably find doing the test fun and it will fill an hour or two.

Even if I fail the verbal reasoning (again), I don't care, either.

It has nothing to do with my life.  

I own I do not miss going into the Smoke every day. It is lovely being in Brighton & Hove. I love every day.

Surprisingly, I am busier than I have ever been. Looking for work is a constant concern which keeps going eight to 10 hours a day.

It is not great out there. The UK is pulling out of recession pretty slowly.

International turmoil and the Scottish question are not helping. On the latter, I am getting tired of reading about how close it will be, when one feels that on the day the Scots will vote with their wallets to stay with their English brothers and sisters. Not to do so would be most un-Scottish.

However, I am worried Gordon Brown is being wheeled out by Dave Cameron for the 'No' campaign. Is this wise? I am not sure it is.

Still, hope springs eternal. I have been trying to build up my network of contacts. No decent work seems to be advertised these days.

It is interesting to see how many of my former Fleet Street mates are also in limbo: many have set up PR companies, some have changed careers completely, some have emigrated. A generation is adrift.

Of course, I miss my kids like mad.

Losing a well-paid job is nothing compared with losing my children.

It has been almost three years since I last saw them. There is no sign of this situation changing. Eveything has been been tried. There is nothing left to do.

I can understand why it is so difficult for them, but at least it would be comforting to get a message,

an email, a text. . .

Nothing.

I do work really hard. I am battering away on my computer keyboard all morning, all afternoon and often during the evening as well.

Breaks occur: basketball, trying a build an allotment fence out of pallets (harder and more time-consuming than I imagined it would be), time with Mr Cheeky, housework et cetera.

Mr Cheeky, to my surprise, has become the local pub cat.

I was walking past the Bottom's Rest and looked up to see him staring at me through the window.

The barmaids treat him like a boyfriend and even the pub dog does not appear to bother him.

Often, he heads down the local with his mate Django at around 6.30pm and stays there playing until we collect him at dusk.

Through Mr Cheeky, I have been become friendly with Django's owner, Nick, a boulevardier VATman and biker, and his characterful housemates.

What to do? Sometimes it feels all too mad.

I have been spending a lot of time reading self-improvement books, assaying to bolster my chances.

It is important to stay positive and to keep going.

Mr Cheeky often curls up on my desk as I am writing. I think he instinctively understands.

It was hot today at times. Yet in just two months' time it will be Bonfire - dark, possibly wet, cold - and fiery. Then Christmas - the worst time of year for a dad separated from his kids.

My dear friend Midders phoned two days ago. He is ill and lonely. It made me very sad to hear about it.

Consolations come in small ways. For some time I have been thinking about playing 78s and last weekend I acquired a player.

In Lewes, people would sometimes put unwanted stuff on the street with a note asking for payment (into a box or through the letterbox) if anyone wanted anything.

In Brighton & Hove, people go further. They often put out things for others to take - pro bono, gratis, free.

It is infectious. I have given away quite a few good things. It feels so much better than trying to sell them.

So, I acquired a 78 rpm record player and stereo tape deck for nowt. All I had to do was get two-quid speakers from a charity shop and wire it up. It works brilliantly.

What an irenic place Brighton Hove is!

Maybe, that's why the graffiti artists do what they do. To share their genius with us for nothing.

If only there was more forgiveness and understanding in the world. 

Brighton Pride 2014

Our Brighton Pride 2014 experience was rather different from in previous years.

My hopes of watching the Parade were dashed, in no small part by the naughty Mr Cheeky, more of which later.


By the time we set off, a river of people were coming back.

All the same, we mingled with the crowd and walked up to St James's Street for a Pride cocktail.

We have never been to the Preston Park event (too expensive and, I suspect, not really my cup of Assam).

But I love to take part in Pride.

Usually, we join the procession. One of the great things about Brighton Pride is that it has become so much more than a celebration of the LGBT communities of the city.

It is a party for everyone and straights enjoy it as much as anyone.

It's an incredibly friendly event.

I see it as a thumbs-up by the entire community to freedom of expression, to people being themselves without fear of prejudice or discrimination.

It is also remarkably entertaining.

We like to kick off Pride at the Bedford Tavern on the Friday night. 

There is always a drag act, a packed house and a great atmosphere.

The Bedford is a 200-year-old "country pub in the town" which welcomes everyone while being a gay venue.


We got to bed quite late and the next morning Mr Cheeky wanted to go out early and did not return.

Just as we were about to go out, we received a call from a resident of Brunswick Square to say that Mr Cheeky had just jumped off the roof and landed on some scaffolding where he was now stuck.

They had climbed up to see him and undone the capsure around his neck to find our phone number.

After his recent accident, we were shocked the Cheekster had got himself in trouble again.

My flat backs on to Brunswick Square - the grandest address in Hove.

The houses are enormous and at least 100 foot tall. It takes about 10 minutes to walk round to the front.

I grabbed the cat basket and dashed round to try to rescue Mr Cheeky.

On Brunswick Square, I was called in a huge basement apartment and led by Ed to their courtyard at the back.

Mr Cheeky was some 20 foot up, standing on a scaffolding plank.

As soon as he saw me, he moved forward as if he intended to jump off!

Ed's partner Caroline held him back.

I climbed up the ladder and managed to get Mr Cheeky into his basket fairly easily. I think he was quite frightened.

Caroline explained that their little daughter, Parker, had first spotted Mr Cheeky coming off the roof onto a top window ledge.

Then he tried to climb down a builders' ladder and had fallen off, miraculously not going through the hole below, but landing on the plank.

They climbed up and had been feeding him ham and trying to lure into a wicker basket.

The big mystery to me was how Mr Cheeky had come to be on the roof of Brunswick Square. It is not an easy place to reach.

Our flat has no access to the back of Brunswick Square and, even if he found his way through from a neighbouring house, Mr Cheeky would have had to climb around 100 feet.

Even if he found a fire escape to climb up, he would still have to jump from the top of it onto the roof and then jump from roof to roof to start to get down the other side. A very precarious business!

Now,  for his malfeasance, Mr Cheeky is grounded - literally!

Back to Pride, after our foray out, we returned and I had a nap (I have not been sleeping well recently) and then we walked back to St James's Street in the early evening.

Pride is becoming increasingly ticketed.

I believe the Preston Park used to be free. Now it costs a lot to get in.

The St James's Street party has always been a free, albeit crazy, alternative
This year you had to buy a ticket for that, too.

Laura is not terribly keen on standing in crowds and, as I currently have zero income, we decided to give the party a miss this year.

We sat around the gardens opposite which had turned into a kind of Pride picnic. The flowers were wonderful - very fragrant.

It seems to me that Pride is gradually and
stealthily taking over all of the centre of Brighton.

In 20 years' time it will be one of the biggest outside parties in Britain.

Already, you see Pride shindigs all over the city. It is a great excuse for a knees-up.

And long may it continue!




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What to do about the Holy Land?

If you had God-like powers, you would redraw the boundaries to give Israel and Palestine each a fair share of this arid and inhospitable part of the world - including Jerusalem.

Then you would brainwash all the people into forgetting the past, loving each other and living in harmony.

Without God-like powers, it is not so simple.

The Palestinians fighters are hugely outgunned by the Israelis but carry on attacking their foes because of the historic injustices foisted on them.

The Israelis indiscriminately slaughter the Palestinians, mainly civilians, with the hearty support of most of their citizens.

It appears to be another problem without a solution.

*************************************************************

My allotment is doing well.

I try to fit in a visit a week, to weed and water, to break up the tedium of applying for jobs and generally looking for work.

On Tuesday I have my first interview with my "coach" at the Labour Exchange (Job Centre Plus).

I am not sure what to wear: pin-striped suit and tie, jeans and open collar shirt, or allotment shorts and T-shirt.

Do they expect me to look like I am still working and instantly ready to attend any job interview?

Or would a more laid-back, resigned-to-one's-fate look suffice?

Questions, questions. Why is life so complicated?

*************************************************************

I am thinking of writing a will.

It is not that I have any plans of dying - although with my luck since 2010, nothing seems impossible - but it is good to have your affairs in order.

It is also an excellent time to do it because I have very little left to bequest.

Therefore, it is unlikely to take me long.