Having just Googled, it’s great to learn that the West Cornwall Pasty Company continues to have an outlet on Duke Street. Suzi feels the same way. Soon after arriving in Brighton we strolled into the bakery with eats on our minds – but food was the last thing the staff were thinking about.

As we scanned the menu-board we overheard from behind the counter an actor’s name being uttered, one we’d heard on the day we arrived in town, from the Big Issue seller at the railway station, and before that at Ayr racecourse on Gold Cup day, on O’Connell Bridge, Dublin on Bloomsday, in a Parisian jazz club, Caveau de la Huchette. We’d heard it on countless occasions, in different accents and different tongues, and now we were hearing it again. It was music to my ears!

Could I take advantage of their belief that I was the sexiest man in the world? That 007 was in front of them, and possibly about to purchase a Vegetable Provencal pasty? Experience had taught me that it would only take 10-20 seconds for them to realise I wasn’t a global star, but I felt I had to give them something so I said, ‘I’m his cousin.’ Outside, and between mouthfuls of tasty grub, Suzi said, ’You can’t say that!’ But I had and I’d embellished it and while the staff delivered us our orders, I delivered a wee bit of entertainment. I don’t know if what I had to say sounded plausible, but it cast no aspersions on the great Scot himself, and brought smiles to their faces. Is there anything more important in life than spreading a little happiness?

Twelve months later, and after another Duke Street detour, we were consuming more hot, flaky and crumbly Cornish food in the Pavilion Gardens. We sat on the warm grass, surrounded by young and old, who were likewise basking in the early summer sun. Children played and lovers kissed. It was idyllic, but the memory it brings tugs at my heart. As I picture the scene old man subconscious has been at work, for another Duke re-surfaces, and one of his numbers that I’ve referred to in an earlier post comes back to haunt me: Blues to be There. A fortnight after that afternoon in the Gardens we left Brighton. Soon, too, at the end of May, WAPO Again will draw to a close. I’m not in sight of Max’s statue, strolling along the prom, walking up Little Preston Street or watching the Tai Chi on the Lawns at Hove; that’s out of choice, albeit a painful and perhaps foolish one. But for the moment, thanks to The Argus, I’m still there. It’s like having my pasty and eating it too!

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