Why not take a long walk on a short pier
I have a whole week off coming up soon.
I might just elope to Brighton for a bit.
The first time I spent a dirty weekend in Brighton with a lover, we had a fight. She snapped at me in the middle of the high street, I snapped back, she darted off, and, since that was during that lost era before everyone had a mobile phone, we spent the rest of the afternoon vainly looking for each other. We made our separate ways back to London late at night on the same train, but we only figured that out when we hit Victoria Station.
The second time I spent a dirty weekend in Brighton with a lover, we had a fight, at four in the morning in our bed and breakfast room. So, in a truly obnoxious manner, I got my earplugs out of my bag and pretended to sleep. For the rest of the day and on the train back, we didn’t speak and it was then that I decided that it’d be better to go our separate ways as soon as we’d hit Victoria station.
The third time I spent a dirty weekend in Brighton with a lover, I mainly waited a lot. She’d said she’d be there at 5; at 5 she called to say she was down the pub with some mates and would be there at 7; at 7 she promised she’d be there at 8. I had dinner by myself in a dimly lit restaurant and flirted with the waitress. When the delayed lover turned up, a little after 10, my anticipation button had been flicked off. After that I lowered my expectations.

I can’t help but question my quasi-masochistic attachment to the place.
Who wants to go to Brighton with me?