On top of being an intensely attractive shabby-chic Regency town and a magnet for creative types and wannabes, Brighton has become known as something of a centre for photography in recent years, and is probably one of the most intensively photographed places outside London. It must be hard to find an original angle. I was happy just to potter around like any tourist, banging away with my camera.
That edifice in the background is the Grand Hotel. If it looks familiar, that may be because you saw it on the news in 1984, when an IRA bomb very nearly killed the entire Conservative government of the day, including Margaret Thatcher, attending the party's annual conference.
I was surprised how few actual photographers there were around. Yes, smartphones were ubiquitous and various people were setting up tripods on the beach to photograph the pier (yawn), but the bustling carnival of folk enjoying the sunshine was mainly going undocumented, which seemed a pity. I guess you get bored with it, if you live there. I have rarely seen so many dreadlocked, pierced or tattooed people in one place. I have also rarely seen so many young children: it seems Brighton is where hip young London goes to breed.
I was pleased with that one, though. It makes a nice companion to the "St. Paul's in The Globe" image from a few weeks ago. It seems that no matter where you go, there you are.