Drinking mulled wine in the North Lanes, Brighton

Brighton has been part of my life for many years - when I was a student, I'd come down from London - I'd meet up with Jay and Russell - they shared a small house in Kemptown, in Charlotte Street - there were many books and bottles to be found in the house - later, they moved to a house rented from a writer - nearby was the Windsor Castle, where the dart players had the inscrutable faces of zen masters

Once in that louche household, I had listened to the Firebird with Russell, in the early hours of the morning - I was drenched with chemicals - I thought I'd be able to see Kashchei, turning Albion Hill into a magical garden -

Anne, too, lived in Kemptown as a girl - her family's house was next to the convent school she attended - she and Maire were taught by creaky nuns - later, they were taught by sardonic Christian Brothers -

Anne has remained friends with Maire to this day - we recently visited the North Lanes with her and Pete - the narrow streets we went down were lit up with strings of lights, zig zagging from roof top to roof top -  neon snowflakes blazed against the darkening sky - eccentric shops displayed their wares - we gazed at retro clothing, vintage comics, bakelite telephones, gauzy 1920's cocktail dresses, mirrors, shipwrights' tools, thin dried twigs painted silver -

Musicians played guitars and sang their songs - Japanese girls watched one musician - we saw a man selling mulled wine - Anne suggested we drink some - the wine was spicey and potent - I thought of Edmund and the White Witch - we stood in the crowded street and drank up the mulled wine - I looked carefully at the faces of all those passing by me in the street - they seemed to blur, to become the faces of different people - I tugged upon my scarf - I remained in the world I knew -