My neighbourhood of Hove is a generally sedate, affluent place, which (though I moved here when I was young and able-bodied 30 years ago) is well-suited to the elderly and the disabled. There’s a bar on our high street where the Yolo-OAPs gather at the first sight of sun, sipping Long Island Iced Teas, smoking fags and playing cards. I’m one of them now, and I can’t help thinking of the Pulp song “Help The Aged”: “Help the aged / One time they were just like you / Drinking, smoking cigs and sniffing glue.” I haven’t seen any glue-sniffing at this particular watering hole, but that’s only because the clientele are affluent enough to go for more status-conscious sniffs.
Sometimes, in my basic wheelchair, I cast an envious eye at the sleek mobility scooters passing by. There’s a particular cherry red model I like, and when I catch myself admiring it, I always make myself smile. It’s like an OAP version of those old pop songs wherein a high-school girl takes up with the leader of the pack: “Betty, is that Jimmy’s panic-alarm pendant you’re wearing?”
If Brighton is a burg which – to quote Keith Waterhouse – “always looks as if it’s helping the police with their inquiries”, Hove looks like one which bothers the coppers a lot on behest of the Neighbourhood Watch. That’s why it seemed so strange to us when Angela Rayner moved here. She’s so young and vital, you’d have thought that she’d have been attracted by the late nights and bright lights of Brighton. But, as it turned out, she couldn’t resist the discreet charm of the Hove-eoisie.
