Our B&B - sorry, boutique hotel - has a definite identity crisis. First, it thinks that it's a b&b in an old Regency terrace house - the kind of building that was an establishment back when Mrs Pipchin was taking in boarders. But it also fantasizes about being a Small Boutique Establishment - hence the elaborate shower (that doesn't really work) over the bathtub (on legs) in the bedroom, and the decor. Yes, though our room is (mock) pine and white with some extraordinarily hip radiators hanging from the wall, the stairs think that they want to audition for Equus. And outside (the elegance of Brighton) is a long square, bounded on three sides by crumbling white houses and by the English Channel, and the ruins of the West Pier, on the fourth, with screaming Saturday night drunks loudly taking over the night air. "Why?" Alice keeps, understandably, asking. "Because it's England," I tell her ...
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