Tucked away in an arcade, far from Arcadian – not far from Baz’s Off Licence.
The launderette.
Yet another testament to the partial persistence of industrial technology.
No Longer in Use.
A happy hotch-potch of signs, surfaces and sixties design.
Informal formica, stripped bare strip lighting, wobbly laminate walls.
Watch and wait, whilst the World and your washing whirl.
On Lower Hillgate, almost next door to where it used to be, there stands The Tudor Café.
Almost where it has almost always stood.
Other businesses have come and gone, happily it prevails.
The cheapest tastiest grub in town.
An interior festooned with tea towels.
Tables polka dotted, teas hot.
Signs inside and out, some of them inside out.
Greetings from Gdansk.
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.
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.
Idly meandering through Cliftonville, along Northdown Road, I chanced upon the most delightful of cake shop windows. Being something of an aficionado of cakes, shops and windows it seemed like an ideal opportunity to snap away, with customary broad-smiling, wide-eyed enthusiasm. Furthermore why not go in? I was met with the most charming of receptions from the patron Stuart Turner and staff – not unreasonably inquisitive regarding my impromptu picture taking, I explained my particular interest in the patisserie. The interior of the 50’s bakery, shop and café is perfectly preserved, with a little sympathetic restorative work. Well upholstered and formica topped the furniture is the finest of its kind, each table graced with fresh flowers, condiments and loving care and attention. An exquisite array of breads, pastries and cakes, resting on delicate doilies, displayed in glass fronted cases. I encourage you to visit, take tea, take cake, take away the fondest of sweet memories.
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.
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.
Standing immutable on the south coast seafront is the View Hotel, forever almost changing.
A seventies delight of exuberant geometry, tiled detail, protruding balconies and audacious window frames.
Its confidence is overwhelming.
Recently refurbished this trade union run hotel and conference centre has preserved much of its period interior detail, a swirling spiral stairway, unique circular light fittings, dark hardwood fittings and furnishings.
Suitable setting for high espionage or low talking.
Swept along by the verve, vivacity and capacious volume, I suggest you take a peak.
http://www.theviewhoteleastbourne.com
Modern Mooch 