"Nuvole Blanche (White Cloud)" Ludovico Einaudi
I managed to get out and about a bit in the snow today; in my wellies, with a pocket full of cough sweets and two spare handkerchiefs. I didn't achieve milk or courgettes, certainly didn't cover anything like the stretch of the photos in this post; nor did I take my camera: the photos of Brighton and Hove below are copyright to our local rag, The Argus. Although I sometimes take issue with the paper due to leading and divisive reporting, the Argus online has been extremely informative and supportive in recent days, providing local transport, travel and schools updates. It's also harnessed the talents of amateur and professional photographers from across the city to capture our snowfall with candour.
I have no illusions about Brighton or Sussex in general, and I'm quick to point out the city's tendency to tarnish and rust and go on the turn, but I've also become fiercely fond of it. I often think the Pavilion looks like a huge and fantastic dismantled wedding cake; with a another swirl of snow on snow, various landmarks and iconic Brighton sights look like they're made out of meringue. Like icing, or powder and paint, snow can hide a multitude of scars and defects: I didn't see any rough-sleepers today and I pray this means they're all relatively comfortable and warm in the city's shelters.
Brighton may well wipe her nose on her sleeve, but she still proudly wears her heart on it. Self-consciously gaudy and mismatched in the summer, Brighton at the moment looks shyly pretty but a bit confused in white, like a born-again virgin bride of a certain age. Shame about my courgettes and milk though.
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