A trip to the seaside

Not that we didn't see it coming a mile off, but perhaps it's the recent downgrading of the weather from 'stifling and hot' to 'grim and blustery' that has prompted me into finally posting this long overdue missive and revelling in the memory of the gloriously sunny weekend in which my girlfriend and I finally made good on our promise to take our first trip to Brighton. It was on a blisteringly hot Sunday that my better half, my parents and I drove down to the Sussex coast, basking in the sunshine and looking forward to the joys of the seaside on the perfect summer's day. The beach and surrounding area was heaving, but the huge crowds and and sweltering weather just added to my excitement at visiting for the first time. My abiding memories of the British seaside come courtesy of Essex Coast family favourite Southend, which is made to look decidedly second-rate (recent multi-million-pound rejuvination project notwithstanding) in comparison.

Here's the missus and I enjoying our day at the seaside.

Likewise, my folks.

For those who have yet to visit the bustling, vibrant magnet for all that's young and hip you'll not be surprised by the crowds and, while this is definitely a family-friendly resort, the presence of a large university and scores of young visitors means this really is a mecca for the twenty-something sunseeker. While certain coastal towns a few hundred miles west may have developed a reputation for underage drinking and illicit moonlit parties in recent years, you wont find many empty Bacardi Breezer bottles and empty packets of Benson's strewn over the beach here, oh no. Modern waterfront bars and live music are definitely the flavour.

It's worth noting that my family has a strong traditional streak: we spent a good hour and a half playing pitch and putt a little way up the coast, and had fish and chips on the beach. And Brighton seems to share this sensibility too. It has, bursting out from the coastline and imposing itself on the waterfront, a traditional, comfortingly-cheesy pier and some proper deckchairs (albeit rendered in some fetching modern colours).

My first driving lesson

As this post will no doubt indicate, I emerged from my first outing behind the wheel of a car unscathed. I think I did rather well, stalling only twice, and generally making the thing go in a straight line without hitting anything. Or anyone. I arrived home feeling heartened.

The lesson took place in a little nook of South Woodford, so positioned as to run parallel to a busy A-road, the net effort of which was to simulate the noise and commotion of driving quickly with lots of other people buzzing in your ears without any of the pesky traffic and other business. Whether this was intentional or not I don't know, but it certainly made me a bit nervous to begin with. Happily this was short-lived.

As if my 'novice' status wasn't obvious enough, the fact the place in which I was having my lesson was also the site for a dozen or more other lessons, (each under the livery of a different driving school, each performing their own little 3-point turns or, more rudimentarily, their cockpit drill and learning how to start up and move off properly) was a source of amusement and surprise. It was like a little learner's commune, L-plates our badges of honour and our fleeting glances of concentration and tentative gestures of acknowledgement a sort of improvised code of brotherhood. "I'm learning to drive", we seemed to say to one another, "and so are you". When behind the wheel it's both hard and unwise to try to form thoughts much more complicated than this, as you can imagine.

And so, some 6 years after wanting to start learning to drive, I have finally got my way and have put into motion to plan to clog up our capital's roads with yet another environment-bothering automobile. God Bless our modern freedoms.

The vocal stylings of Ms Liza Finn

On a horrible, rain-sodden evening in North London, singer/songwriter Liza Finn and her band headlined at Lark In The Park in London's Islington, bringing her soulful vocals and harmonious, jazz-inflected nu-pop sound to yet another appreciative audience (providing a much-needed ray of sunshine to counter the downpour outside). Her vocals are expertly supported by her own work at the piano, with the presence of atmospheric guitar-playing and trumpeteering at once lending her style an uncommon originality and a nod to some of the better British music of the last few decade or two.

Liza is no stranger to the London gigging circuit, having been performing for some time now, and around a year ago her band's current line-up came into being. Her regular performances at a number of venues around North London have given her the not-unwelcome problem of having to keep up with demand by adding to her body of original material (perhaps including the odd cover version for good measure, her boyfriend recently informed me).

Liza is an Exeter University music graduate - this is one alumna who proves how foolish their decision to shut that particular department back in 2004 truly was.

For more of Liza and her music, check her myspace.

Others road users beware

Yes that's right, I have received my provisional driving license. Scary stuff. And if you're scared about the prospect of me whzzing around suburban roads, barely in control of a tonne or so of internally-combusting machineness, then that's nothing compared to how I feel.

Thank God for dual controls.

Ladies and gentleman, play is suspended

Ah, the joys of a Wimbledon rain delay. Satisfying most people's inner cynics, the spectacle of a rain-free first week of the tournament had been too good to be true, and so far the second half of the fortnight has seen a fairly average number of stoppages.

Thankfully, Sir Cliff Richard has only been seen just the once, and there has (as yet) been no cause for him to huff his ever-more emaciated frame out of his seat and serenade Centre Court during a particularly lengthy piss-down. With regards to the television coverage, as professional as the BBC consistently is and as regularly as these delays have occurred down the years, they always appear a little under-prepared. In this case, perhaps the gloriously sunny first week prompted an element of complacency, and the onset of showers caught them without their metaphorical brolly.

Today saw a classic example of some half-formed nattering accompanying some fairly one-dimensional footage. Clips of players having a knock-about on the training ground are not that uncommon, but once the player has been spotted and the viewing public have managed to work out who they're looking at (stripped of their Wimbledon whites, and now in an unfamiliar combo of more obviously sponsor-clad get-up) the interest is lost. But what's this? Can it be British wild-card, Chris Eaton, less than a week following his exit in the second round, having a knock-up with - cue deeply un-dramatic camera pan - dun dun duuunnh! Roger Federer! Back in the studio Sue Barker is all wry smiles. Perhaps, she offers, now they're best buds he'll offer to practise with him in the future. The sub-text was hard to miss: with this, perhaps the Fed Express' greatness will rub off and one day, like his new mentor, Eaton will dominate the All England's Club's courts for half a decade, once he's filled out a bit and set up a charitable foundation. Then, the pupil will have become the master. Well, really.

"You can learn so much from just being around great players, seeing how they behave and conduct themselves around the finals of a grand slam" one commentator said on a voice-over (!) of the training court footage. What, all that one-foot-in-front-of-another stuff, yeah? Good for Eaton, of course, and I'm sure he thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but as a potential boost for his world ranking, I'd not get too excited.

Bring on the sunshine, thanks.