Unresponsive screen. Again. Trudging resignedly to the nearest phone repair shop. “£65”. “But it’s not cracked, just slow?” “Screen needs replacing”. Cross the road for second opinion. Same guy pops up behind the counter. “Same price here, £65” he grins. Energised by piss-off, trot along to a 3rd shop. Exact same phone cases cases, same sideline of same fidget-spinners, but no sign of pop-up man. A middle-aged English jack-the-lad with
From this lookout, you’ll see three jewellery shops. Three! A slightly terrifying upmarket looking one, with antique gold and unusual vintage and collectors’ pieces in the window; a somewhat less terrifying one, which is promising ‘gold purchase’ for those who are in the extremes of hard times or flush with unwanted inheritance pieces; and an upbeat modern European one, full of Italian branded smart design and not too proud to
They skip past the brand new picnic blankets, unfathomably priced at twice the rate of supermarket ones, but still a rapidly reducing pile each time they visit. Ladies separates is the goal today, and they happily grab the best bits fast and make for the friendly blonde cashier. While she’s ringing up the bargains (two pairs of trousers for a tenner! One Top Shop and one M & S!), they
‘Sold! ‘Sold! ‘Sold!’ boasts the window in an exhausting hyperbole of celebration. Plenty of bungalows, just as we suspected there would be. But town houses too. And – look! – some smart contemporary flats designed for urban commuter living (if you’re unlucky enough to be a South-eastern rail customer). Or perhaps they’re intended as cool cutting-edge residence for co-working start-up entrepreneurs who don’t need – or want – to confuse
Some days, cycling up this hill is desperately difficult, but in today’s morning sunshine – not yet vicious – the air feels thin and pliable, parting to let me move through it. The thought of the next corner pulls me on as much as does my appointment – strict timing, no latecomers allowed – at a gym class at Splashpoint. My pedals slow and I let out an anticipatory snorty-laugh
Tuesday night at the Honey Hush Club and Colin Tenn on the decks mixes classic Elvis with lesser-known tracks, making judicious choices about tempo, era, danceability. Many people made the effort to dress up vintage: anything from 1940s style wide-leg pants – so conveniently back in high-street fashion this summer – through denim dungarees (aren’t they fantastically hot to dance in, you wonder) and, naturally, several circular skirts. Nobody’s wearing net
The barista’s tattoos are beautifully done – multi-coloured swoops and curls of dramatic shapes. It makes you a bit dizzy to look at them as you sideways-squint, trying to make out the images, trying not to be too stare-bear, while she focuses on not getting scalded by the heavyweight high-end machine. She looks up and catches you looking a bit too intensely. You smoothe it over by asking what the
Every 2 weeks, on Thursday evening, I’ll be posting a new short flash-ethnography from Worthing, West Sussex, where I have lived since I made the crossing from East Sussex (Brighton-Hove) to West Sussex (Worthing) in 2014. The writing comes out of the whispers about Worthing that I am collecting as I move around here. The visuals are generously offered by Worthing-based artists and copyright remains with the artists.