Viva Brighton Issue #28 June 2015

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Lizzie Enfield
Notes from North Village
Illustration by Joda, jonydaga.weebly.com
I’m searching through emails from Esteemed Editor.
I say this more because I’m fond of alliteration
than because I hold him in any… (Note to ed. Only
joking). I find the first email I ever sent him.
We’d been to a press lunch at the fabulous Indian
Summer restaurant. The body of the mail read
along the lines of “nice to meet you. Give me work
one day!” but the subject heading was “Ancient
Greek Scrabble.”
Well, you know how it is, or you would if you lived
in North Village, where kids go to school and study
hard and spend their spare time Scrabble rousing.
Seriously, Other Half and I went away recently. We
wondered what the offspring might get up to in
our absence. When we got home, it appeared new
heights of debauchery had been reached: the 18
year old had several friends around for an evening
of… Scrabble and hot chocolate. We reassured each
other, “she’ll probably go off the rails at university.”
Our house is not quite Ab Fab and I’m not quite
‘Edina’, but I am vaguely embarrassed that the list
of teenage misdemeanors runs to only two.
1) Eldest went to London, supposedly with a friend
and her father. Turned out they went ON THEIR
OWN “to see the Hockney exhibition at the Royal
Academy…”
2) Same child woke me in the early hours, secreting
gang into the kitchen, calling out, “it’s just Gemma.”
I find the whole of the brass section of the youth
orchestra, discussing cadences VERY LOUDLY.
While I suspect there may be worse things, which
I don’t know about, there is also a sweet level of
innocence, which I do.
There’s a story. It’s about whether ‘coit’ is a word.
Teens have never heard of it, even in the ‘coitus
interruptus’ context. I am about to relay the story to
those at the lunch where I met Esteemed Editor.
Because of the way I set up the story, I don’t quite
get to the punch line.
“I was playing French Scrabble with my daughter
last night,” I begin and everyone starts falling about
piss taking.
I know how it sounds. I start furiously pédalage
arrière (back pedalling).
Pédalage doesn’t score many points but it helps you
with your French GCSE, “which was the next day.
Which is why we were playing French Scrabble. We
don’t normally.”
Peut-être I protest too much.
“Where do you live?” asked Esteemed Ed. (Note to
ed. That’s three times in one piece I’ve glorified you.
You owe me fine wine).
I mention a street in the ‘North Village’.
“Fits,” someone else, says. “Wouldn’t be surprised if
they played Scrabble in Ancient Greek there.”
“You’d be surprised at the plethora of words and
kudos gained by playing,” I quip but the joke falls
diamérisma – flat.
Still, if you start that on a triple-word score and the
M lands on a double letter, it’s 51 points. So there…
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