Brighton/Hove seem like twin cities but they are one and the same place, population 273,400 (in 2011). Hove is supposed to be the upscale part of Brighton. Sir Lawrence Olivier is quoted as correcting someone who commented that he lived in Brighton: “Hove, actually,” in his best upper-class tone. My cousins live in Hove (of course).

Today they took me to their seaside club in Brighton, the HDSA, Hove Deep Sea Anglers, founded by a policeman in 1909 to enable eager fishermen to fish out from the shingle (they call it but it’s stones) beach. Rain and wind prevented us from sitting on the patio looking out at the ocean waves, but a goodly crowd inside warmed their cockles with lager and lunch, specializing in fish, esp. fish and chips. I had battered cod and chips; my cousin Beth had kipper; Cousin Tim had grilled plaice. A well-behaved white poodle watched its owner. A caregiver withdrew a little boy whose eyes were level with the playing surface of the pool table as he watched the balls careering about, for fear that he get smacked with a shot, or maybe she was worried that his chin might drip onto the green field. I just watched and soaked up local atmosphere and hot tea with a biscuit.

After lunch we checked the local train station where I bought a ticket to London for tomorrow (more anon). Then at Waitrose (supermarket, a chain) I bough tBath Oliver biscuits for a friend in Canada (because you can’t get them there) and a couple of bottles of good French wine for my cousins that made me want to stay over and share them.

We had afternoon tea at home; I checked my mail, had a nap, didn’t help with dinner (fish pie) and talked. Maybe it doesn’t sound exciting to you but I don’t have many contemporaries left and I enjoy talking to them. At that, I’m a little older than they are, but we are the same era and we share some family memories. I loved being with them.

Tomorrow I begin the cultural pace of my trip.

At least it used to be. Glorious.

I have arrived safely in England after a long flight from Toronto, not first-class, of course. I don’t think it makes much difference. I flew Cathay Pacific first-class from Toronto to Singapore last year to begin my almost-round-the-world cruise (one of the perks granted to us “world-travellers” as they called us) and I slept in one of those fascinating stretch-out beds. Slept is not the right word. I didn’t sleep any better there than I did last night in my Economy three-to-a-row chair. I dozed; time passed. I also slept on the bus from Heathrow Airport to Brighton (“Hove, actually”) to visit some cousins before I begin my theatre odyssey. Buses are like cradles to me, but I digress.

I tell you all this because we ate on the plane. That is, we were given something to eat. We didn’t have to order it in advance on a credit card as we do on domestic flights. (Nachos and cheese for a an outrageous price!) Dinner came on a tray, choice of chicken or mac and cheese. Chicken, please. plus a teeny bottle of red or white, also my choice. And that’s when I became very nostalgic.

Years ago there was a first-class flight in North America that sold out before economy. The Canadian airline, now defunct, ran it between Vancouver and San Francisco and it took about the same amount of time as was required to consume and enjoy a gourmet dinner with appropriate wines. The champagne would be poured as the plane took off; the liqueur was being rolled around the tongue as the plane landed . It was delightful and I thought of it last night as I munched my chicken, enjoying the memory more than the dry meat or the “savoury” rice.

The good thing about that memory is that it can never be duplicated; the bad thing is that it can never be duplicated. It spoiled my dinner last night. The good/bad thing, depending on how you look at it, is that it makes a carnivore a carnivore. and a wine drinker an oenophile.

“There’s nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” (Hamlet, of course.) Or a very good memory.