An absolutely wonderful morning. The sun streaming through my bedroom window turned the usual polar conditions into a ruby red Port warmth making it extremely difficult to get up, however I made it to the kettle in the kitchen, black strong coffee and back to the warmth of bed.

The sea this morning looked like something from a holiday brochure, you know, the way they photo shop it to look turquoisey blue, inviting, clean, pure salt water. I was happy to believe in that illusion and threw out thoughts of 'Yeah but the Channel is full of turds which are probably floating about frozen at present'. The huge crystal hanging from my curtain rail threw rainbow sun cats across the wall, refracted sunshine, light honey.

I got up on a high and spent the morning on the phone talking to my friends who I knew would be getting the same buzz as me. My mate and I got on to the subject of sex somehow and she said one of her thoughts were that people like ourselves were becoming what one of her friends called 'Selfosexuals'. Can't be arsed with relationships, need freedom and if the core instinct to procreate rears its ugly head it's nothing that a quick wank won't sort out. We concluded that we were going to spend the rest of the day sun worshiping.

I really don't know if it's an age thing but the winters seem to get longer and longer, I hate the cold and living in a seaside town it dies somewhat in the winter months.

The spring is a totally different story in Brighton, only to be pipped at the post by spring in Stockholm.

The Swedish capital literally explodes with life, positiveness, laughter and over indulgence. The May day celebration is a mass of red flags and thunderflashes, to the visitor it resembles a good humoured riot, madness reigns. Summers on the way as the remaining ice from Lake Maleran drifts in huge glass chunks pass the Royal Palace and out into the Baltic, glorious spectacular years of my life.

The first sound of spring in Brighton is the motorbike, it's a haven for my only choice of machine the Harley Davidson. Being woken on a sunny Sunday morning by a Fat Boy going up through the transmission along the seafront says to me get up and get out there

I'm lucky enough to live about five minutes walk to the bikers caff on the seafront, these days Lambretta's line up gleaming along with some very expensive motorbike engineering. Fred Perry and Stay press mingle with bike leathers rather than in the sixties where they would have been kicking the shit out of each other. Fish and Chips, cold cans of coke, shocks, blah blah, dampers, blah, straight throughs, blah blah, 170 blah, Ducatti. This is predominantly mens country although there are always a few female pilots and pillions.

The highlight of the caffs seasonal life is the final destination for the Ace Cafe London to Brighton run, the seafront is lined both sides of the road with bikes parked peg to peg for over a mile.

Brighton beach is full of barbecues and parties, someone will do a triple doughnut in a cloud of grey smoke, the burning rubber mixes with the burger onions, the sea as one backdrop and the coloured lights of the beach clubs the other, buzzin.

I remembered I had all this to look forward to and yes, bliss, I will be able to open my bedroom window and listen to the sea crashing on the pebbles on warm blowy nights again, open the front windows and let the Isley Brothers breeze thru draft, through the Jasmine of my modest flat.

Been an interesting day one way or another, had my son Henry over this evening to watch England get wopped two nil by Spain, saved by a massive takeaway curry with chicken tikka covered in red hot birds eye chillies, sag aloo and pilaw.

I sit here replete and content, a good day and as a self confessed 'Selfosexual' I am now out of the closet and at least I have a sexual identity, slightly narcissistic, well yes; off for a wank.