Reacquainting myself with the city of my childhood this year has been enormous fun. As the past Hoves into view, almost every street jolts a memory … although in truth I spend little time in that area where I grew up, having settled in the East of the city.

Here in Kemptown all of life exists cheek by jowl with a general contentment; live music punctuates the many pubs and – oh bliss! – independent shops prevail, although for how long we are unsure. With ever increasing rents, retail ends become more difficult to meet. The Post Office closed just before we arrived, the Butcher is due to disappear next August and there are rumours of other closures. But let’s not dwell on that now.

Still vivid in memory are the places to which we accompanied our parents as they went about their daily business; I will share some of my favourites with you now.

First and foremost is the Family Restaurant business, the flagship for which was at the Old Steine. My Father’s own restaurant was next to the Metropole. Lloyd Loom furniture and stripey parasols long gone, I still see him standing in the entrance, hands on hips surveying his world. Opposite Father’s cafe, was the West Pier a-brim with amusements and a music hall that hosted top glamorous and thrilling 1960s performers.

We loved the West Pier. After my lunchtime shift of table-clearing and washing up, Father and I would visit the game-hall together and play the one-armed bandits … don’t tell your Mother, he would warn. At the end of the pier Danny La Rue’s glittering name illuminated the path for the colour and diversity Brighton boasts today. Taking an afternoon stroll, Mother’s kitten heels would become stuck in the boardwalk, Father gently rebuking her for wearing such impractical footwear – but Mother never went out looking anything but glamourous; hat, gloves and red lipstick de rigueur until the day she died.

The top of Preston Street featured Jack the Butcher, whose windows displayed carcasses and myriad meaty marvels, sawdust on the floor, always a queue. Jack in his butcher’s apron, jolly, hail-fellow-well-met and a cheery word, always had ready the weekly blade-bone used for the Sugo we enjoyed on Sunday.

Sunday featured a regular and familiar pattern; we would pile into the car for 10 o’clock Mass at St Peter’s on Portland Road, after which Mother stopped at home to complete lunch while my Brother and I accompanied Father to The Factory where the Famous Forte’s Ice Cream and cakes were confected.

While Father and Brothers discussed Business over Espresso, Cousin P and and we ascended and descended the Factory floors in an ancient pully lift, permanently stacked with trays of cherry-topped iced cakes, Bakewells and more. The whole place was imbued with the scent of Vanilla, an essence that always takes me back there. To this day no other ice cream flavour will do.

Hills of Hove was a lush department store fronting Western Road; thick, soft dark green carpets muffled creaky floorboards; lifts with ancient gates that snapped shut to elevate customers to the upper floors. This retail emporium featured deferential, polite, uniformed staff (think Are You Being Served). If Mother proffered a five-pound note – a huge sum in those days – The Manager was called to check it and provide change.

Sometimes if Mother required in-store privacy she might leave my brother and I locked in her Triumph Herald for twenty minutes. We cowered within as local boys kicked the car and spat at the windows; we were terrified of The Hooligans … I wonder where they are now?

Mother knew an army of Antique Dealers who courteously allowed her to pay for purchases out of the weekly housekeeping; when paid in full, they would deliver when Father was playing golf, helpfully lifting the coveted item into the loft. Whatever it was, some months later it would mysteriously teleport downstairs and appear as if a long-time fixture in the living or dining room.

Puzzled Father: I haven’t seen that before?

Insouciant Mother: Oh Nino! It’s been in the house for months …

Mother told me it was a sin to lie to my Father and as you can appreciate, she never did.

Old Mr Moseley’s ancient shop featured regularly in Mother’s antique dealings. Opposite the Dyke Road petrol station Mr Moseley had very few items in his dusty window, the state of which belied a view into the shop anyway. We enjoyed visiting Mr Moseley; he was a big, slow slightly stooped gentleman with white hair and big features. His kindly demeanour and twinkling eyes gave us to feel we were always part of the conversation, a great trick to prevent childish boredom leading to a diminished visit by Mother. On calling the house, his slow deliberate well pronounced words would crackle through the line:

Mrs Forte …. something has just come in… that I think you might like …

And so to the present, where HH and I find ourselves in The Mews (blog passim).

At the end of The Mews resides Lady G; within this attractive diminutive new friend bursts forth anecdotes of a life well lived. We have been glued to vivid tales of her Air Hostess experiences in the 60s, encounters with intellectuals and ne’er do wells during a career within the Embassy of a major, Western Power … and so much more. Lady G is a raconteur par excellence and enthralling narratives can elicit gales of laughter and gasps of incredulity.

Two doors down live The Naughty Neighbours, actors and writers both. Of a Saturday night – any Saturday night – a 10pm knock on the door may deliver them into our living room for jolly, raucous conversation … and most likely a much later night than planned. The NNs came into our lives the very day we moved in, as a Welcome to The Mews card dropped onto the doormat followed by swift introductions to other Mews and local folk. What would we have done without them?

Let’s pop next door where reside The Younger Ones. In their 20s this home comprises a CID officer, microbiologist, joiner and Occupational Therapist, all of them conversational, fun and as we discovered when they came over for dinner, very clever.

Towards the back of The Mews, The Weekenders land here most Saturday and Sundays; these DFLs have been Brighton Part-Timers for decades, joining in Mews Events with vivacity and sparkle, adding even more conviviality – and jolly good wine – to proceedings.

All convened at the Summer Party a few short weeks ago, a great success as everyone produced something to eat and drink. Lady G provided a canopy to protect the buffet from Weather, HH entertained with a Fire Show … Youngest of All and Husband-to-Be were on their annual visit from Melbourne and after this sweet event and a last-night dinner at The Reading Room, concurred that we have indeed landed on our feet.

Reader, in this little gated Mews I have found my tribe. Indeed, I am just back from a beachside Sunday Stroll with Naughty Neighbour and Lady G to enjoy coffee, natter and gossip at the clifftop Temple cafe. With sunshine warming our shoulders, the sea swelling and crashing below, our vignette of conviviality was rounded off with a gusty walk home via Seed N Sprout, our tiny organic grocer, a community meeting place for many.

The privilege of creating wonderful new memories in middle-age is unexpected and joyful. Looking to Eartha Kitt’s famous number –  and my theme tune – I can confirm very happily that I have All I Want.

The And Then Some will be the success of my business; with a Backed By Doctors Award received only last week, I have a hunch that this is at last, building nicely.

I’ll keep you posted.

© Giovanna Forte 2025.