2012-02-05 | 8:12 p.m.
I went to Hastings this weekend with New Journo in part of my continuing mission to visit pleasant parts of Britain that I have not yet been to, especially if they happen to be in the Network Railcard zone, meaning I get a third off my train ticket price. New Journo doesn't need to worry about this as he still has a Young Person's Railcard. He might have that little benefit of youth but in the same breath he has no idea who Timmy Mallet is. I'd call it a draw.
So Hastings! Lovely. Cuntingly bitterly cold but lovely. We arrived yesterday afternoon slightly too early to check into our B&B (and not a Travelodge in sight!) so had a seafront walk, play in the arcades, whereby I announced somewhat grandiosely that I was "fluent in 2p falls" and then won about 10 crappy ornaments in as many minutes, my beady eyes scanning the machines for a shallow layer of 2ps, which I would pounce on, harvest its diabolical offerings and then move on.
He was impressed.
After this particular exertion we stopped for lunch (I had pork belly and him fish pie. YUM) and then meandered along the seafront to our little hotel, checked in, dropped our stuff, relaxed for a small while then went back out again for a wee drinky before I managed to persuade New Journo to come and play in a delightful seafront bingo club called "Deluxe". He'd never played before so didn't really understand how it worked. I purchased our tickets and a couple of bingo dabbers. I asked for an orange one and, when asked, New Journo said he'd like a blue. When it was handed to him he simply said in a baffled voice, "Is this a Fruit Shoot?"
So fast-forward about halfway through our game and I'm still sporadically shaking with laughter at that particular comment. At the end of the game my composure was not helped when he said, "I thought it was a special bingo refreshment." Don't ever try drinking a marker pen kids, really.
Today it had snowed and was lovely. After breakfast we ventured uphill and I wish wish wish I'd had my camera with me. Fucking beautiful. The best description I can give is in the Simpsons when Bart wishes for a snow day so he can get his revision done. His wish is granted and the temptation for him to go out and play in the snow is almost unbearable. Or as Mayor Quimby announces, "I hereby declare this day to be Snow Day, the funnest day in the history of Springfield!"
Children toboganning down hills, plants covered in a beautiful white frosting and the crunching crisp sound of each satisfying footstep.
Of course it's Sunday so we had to come home at some point. On our partway replacement bus we had the inciteful discussion, "If you were a sausage, what sausage would you be?", I drank some leftover wine (to ease the weight of my bag *cough* alchie *cough*) and then we boarded a London-bound train at Robertsbridge (nope, never heard of it either). At Tonbridge a kindly announcement went out: "This train will not be continuing its journey to London as it does not have a driver."
We then hung out on the platform and after about 20 minutes another train rocked up, we caught it, departed one another on the Jubilee line and here I am telling you this very tale.
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