Don’t forget to forget.
Big is not large, not small.
This is a dirty blue, washed-out pale yellow, Alice in Wonderland un-wonderful land.
Time will not stand still – you’re in a spin, oh what a spin that you’re in.
Walk in, wash and wish.
Facing happily out to sea, hard by Hastings promenade, sits Arthur Green’s, former menswear shop of some considerable distinction. Currently operating as an antiques centre, the whole of the perfectly preserved, period interior is now listed by English Heritage.
A mosaic porch and glass lined vestibule, invite you into a palace of dark hardwood fittings, capacious drawers, glass fronted cabinets, and an ornately carved cashiers booth, all topped off and lit by crystal chandeliers.
Few such example still exist intact, their contents usually ripped out, ripped off and reinstalled in chi-chi overpriced, cosmopolitan boutiques – suits you sir?
I think not!
My thanks to the helpful and patient staff who informed and facilitated my mooching.
Take a walk along the front – pop in.
Mid blue linoleum tiles, patched here there.
And everywhere.
Signs
Everywhere.
In an uncertain universe, you can almost always rely on the launderette, to guide you on life’s soapy journey, through a complex series of immutable do’s and don’ts, arrows, slots, buttons and bows.
Giant is the new big is the new large.
I feel so small.
Standing alone in an unattended laundrette can be a chilling experience, a heightened state of awareness abounds, accentuating that all pervasive absence of presence.
The unseen hand, that write the notes, that speak to you in emphatic hurried caps, pinned or taped precisely on the walls.
The ghosts of clothes, still warm, now gone.
A Proust defying amalgam of aromas, that almost fills the air.
Just you and a series of slots, demotic instructions, care worn utilitarian surfaces and time.
Wash Inn get out.
Hardly by accident, passing Pevensey Bay by bike one sunny summer’s day, hurriedly intent on catching up with old friends.
Having visited here some years ago, under the guidance of pal Pauline, I was as ever, over eager to renew our previously brief acquaintance.
There they were waiting patiently, to the left of a long straight road, running parallel to the adjacent shore.
Oyster Bungalows – so called for their cylindrical form and formerly scalloped barge boards.
Holiday homes the work of designer / architect: Martin & Saunders Limited built: 1937 – 1939.
Small and perfectly formed, they all seem to have suffered the indignities of ageing none to gracefully.
Subject to the whims of fashion and the uPVC expediency of our age.
Typically no two are the same, variegated planting, neglect and graceless addenda grace the previously pristine homes.
For all that, their diminutive charm remains undiminished.
My spirits lifted as I strolled by, inevitably yours will too.
In the heart of Wales, former centre of the flannel industry, stands Llanidloes.
Through civic pride, love and local doggedness, the decorative shopfront prevails unabashed.
The finest selection of carved and moulded wooden filigree, hand painted signs, large open panes, tile work and the odd suspended folk-art sheep, adorn substantial Victorian properties, rich in the market town tradition of controlled opulence. A varied typology, the majority continuing to trade, the odd domestic conversion retaining its retail characteristics, whilst maintaining its modesty, behind tightly drawn net curtains.
Go take a look.
Arlington House is a 58 metre high eighteen-storey residential apartment block in Margate, Kent, England.
It was built in 1964, it has 142 apartments, and was designed by Russell Diplock & Associates, developed by Bernard Sunley Trust, and built by the contractors Bernard Sunley & Sons.
The sides of the building have a wave-like design, providing both inland and sea views.
It was initially advertised as Britain’s first park and buy shopping centre with luxury flats , incorporating a theatre, restaurant and rooftop swimming pool.
I’ll try anything twice.
So off I went to Margate, on a train, again.
Rushing out of the station agog, eager, looking for a long lost friend.
An impudent exclamation mark at the end of a rowdy Georgian row.
Arlington House.
A mad amalgam of angles, incautious concrete surfaces and glass.
Entranced, enchanted, we both stare out to sea and eye each other admiringly.
Should you, as I did wander down Northdown Road, Cliftonville, you will chance upon Pottons at 262.
By now however, ingress is more than somewhat inhibited.
It’s closed.
The most exciting and extant period fascia, once gave way to oak fittings and fixtures festooned with all manner of menswear, exotic and plain accoutrements, now inaccessible.
It’s gone.
A few sad remnants were on sale, administered in their final days by Lorraine, employed for 35 years in a family business, whose trade had once included made to measure, fine millinery and quality accessories for the discerning gent around town.
No more.
There is a sign.
An Illuminated sign.
There are signs.
Handwritten signs – notices, instructions, scribbled hurriedly, underlined, highlighted, boxed for emphasis.
Taped up.
There are machines, top loaders, best left half empty.
Terrazzo floor, leatherette banquette.
Out of disorder comes out of order.
Close the door when you leave
Just two Bs and an ampersand, but what volumes they speak, secrets they contain, what does go on behind closed doors?
Bed and breakfast, an immovable feast.
Various does not begin to describe their variety, a cornucopia of dolorous decor, quizzical cuisine, curios, carpets and cohabitees.
So knock on, walk into the hall, up the stairs, open that door – who knows what fate awaits you.
Modern Mooch 