'Astings, mate

I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking.

This weekend Buffy and I went to visit my hometown of Hastings - or 'Astings Mate, as cousin Martin always calls it, as in "I'm from 'Astings, mate." We stayed with my sister who lives in a massive house on the outskirts of town with her two kids and five pugs. I've never been a massive pug fan, but they are very sweet, except for when they snort saliva in your face. My sister is one of the nicest people on Earth. Both my sisters are, in fact. But I digress.

We slept on a blow-up bed in the attic room. Inflatable beds are great - except when they become deflatable beds. We blew it up at midnight, when we went to bed. Then woke up at two to find ourselves lying on the hard ground. So we inflated it again. Then again at six. And again at nine. I realise we should have got our lazy, slightly-bruised and everso-achy butts out of bed at that time but, hey, it was a Sunday. We need our lie in! Even if it is on a bit of flat rubber.

Buffy got to meet my entire family, then we went into Hastings and I showed her the wonders of the Old Town. I used to be slightly scared when walking around Hastings because so many shadowy figures from my shadowy past live there, but fortunately we avoided any unpleasant meetings. Plus these days I don't give damn anyway.

We went to one of my old stomping grounds, Ye Olde Pumpeee Houseeeee (I might have overdone the Es; half the clientele had, boom boom). We went to a restaurant called Fagins where the menu - and the prices - haven't changed since 1993. Hastings - the town that time, industry and taste forgot. Oh, I don't mean it. Parts of Hastings are lovely. OK, so I've been sitting here for ten minutes trying to think of some examples, but 'Astings Mate will always have a place in my 'eart. Mate.