Well, I’ve been writing my stuff and yes, it’s not easy. I’m reassured by a quote that Ms Rude offered me for encouragement. Some 19th Century wordsmith wrote it and it goes “The only people who think writing is difficult are writers’ and, yes, its true.
In the past, I watched creative people at various advertising agencies crash their heads against the wall when thick arseholes of clients turned their imaginative and inspiring words into leaden un-involving shit. It was so easy for them, they didn’t care about originality and literacy and they paid the bills.
But at the moment I’m on my own (with Morgan, of course) and I’m trying to put ideas on the page that surprise and amuse people.
Occasionally, no make that very often, I wander outside my flat for inspiration and I’m so lucky. Within minutes I have everything I need.
If I need intellectual stimulation I drop into Yagnash Newsagents. Nothing kick starts the imagination like other writers. The Independent does it for me daily, (brilliant words provocatively presented) but then so does weekly Heat (ego’s successfully pricked) and monthly Vanity Fair (immaculate yet sleazy journalism).
With brilliant ideas buzzing around my head I stagger several feet to find a totally different kind of stimulation. My belly gets neat little taste orgasms via the Cherry Tree Delicatessen where everything is so naughty but nice.
As for food sex where better than Geo Watts & Son, proper fishmongers, (after all my gay men friends go on about us girl’s fishy taste – but how do they know I wonder). I don’t notice Geo or his son, as rather forbidding women serve up my plaice and cod. But it’s even tastier than a juicy cunt and that’s praise indeed.
I’m just a few minutes from my Mac and I’ve got Cardome cards with some really witty (and rather rude) one-liners about gays, lesbians and also those really perverted people who believe in sentimental birthday, wedding and Christmas greetings. It’s virtually impossible to make me laugh out loud these days (since I’ve stopped looking at bloke’s cocks) but the cards at Cardome do it everytime.
We’re still a stones throw from my flat and, if I want to surround myself with the stimulating beauty of nature, there’s Jane Greenwood for stunning flowers that add to my personal fragrance (say what you like about me but I always smell soooo nice) and Planted, where the wonderful guys offer up the most arty green things – proof that nature creates perfect sculpture.
On the subject of fragrance, the St James Centre laundry ensures that my over and underwear are fresh and inviting, although this will disappoint two of my most persistent correspondents who are keen to save me the cost of laundry on my knickers by taking them off my hands (and into theirs).
My final point of call has to be Dragons Gate. Every local neighbourhood needs its magic shop and this is one of the wickedest. As a trainee witch (black so suits me) I welcome their assistance with potions and spells. My enemies (you know who you are) better watch out – Sadie has her evil eye on you.
So there it is, one street, so many stimulating opportunities. If the terrorists struck and Brighton was cordoned off my various appetites could be totally satisfied within minutes of my home. I must include Brighton Rocks and Couch 33 for their inspiring cocktails. And I have to add Clone Zone with their eye-opening (and other parts, of course) selection of dildos and butt plugs.
Where else would you find all this but in the UK’s most amazing city?
With all this foreplay for my imagination lets hope the writing lives up to it. Now back to the book…
Love & Kisses from Brighton Sadie xxxxx