On Saturdays there is no such time as 9:30am in Brighton. There is even a doubt over 9:55am, but there is definitely a 10:am. That's when the world Brighton wise wakes up, stretches, then yawns and the day begins. Thats not to say that I stretch and yawn at the same time, my day starts long before the sun shines on the righteous of our fair city. The sun would shine on the unrighteous as well but most of them have worked over time so bed has a greater appeal.

        10:am is a very special time, it is a sort of lull before the storm time. The birds are on their morning break and have given up trying to wake the streets with their twittering. The seagulls sit and at best raise a rusty caw every now and then.

        The only real sign of life is the magically appearing chairs and tables of the coffee shops, and the mystical aroma of fresh coffee.

        10:am is not so much the start of activity in Brighton its more the time when some one sets a match to the blue touch paper and the fuse begins to burn. By 10:05 a bustle is brewing and people appear on the streets as if they have all arrived on the same bus.

        There is definitely a 10:15am in Brighton that's when the sky rocket, rockets skyward into the soul of the city and everyone takes notice. The coffee shop queues are ten feet deep and the tables are full.

The dress shops are busy luring credit cards. The shoe shops are grabbing innocent ladies from the streets. Even the newsagent, who up to now has wallowed in a mire of sleepiness, is ringing the till bell fit to burst.

Brighton is obscenely busy by 10:20am and for a people watching addict the only real problem is where to sit for the best view. If there is such a place as a people watching addicts heaven, I am certain it would look like Druid Square in the lanes.

I am a self confessed people watching addict. There is no such thing as too much of a good thing when it comes to seeing folk live. Perhaps I could be arrested for being public nosey number one.  I would go to gaol a happy man if I could spend several hours indulging before the cuffs went on.

My wife is torn between the siren sisters of the shops and a good session of coffee and watch. Usually her feet dictate the terms of her desire and when they shout loud enough she comes to join me. I can't stand bad tempered feet so I cut to the chase and get straight to the coffee pot.

The corner table on the pavement nearest to the Druids square is the best I have ever mustered. That and a coffee cup big enough to drown a few ships in is the closest thing to utopia.

I have never sat on this spot and been disappointed. Just watching folk walking past is a story of its own. There are beautiful women by the harem full. Infact I can't ever recall an ugly woman in this realm. To them walking past is an art. Men walk past and have a purpose, women on the other hand, have chosen the right apparel the right bag and shoes and the right hair do is a must.

Women push prams. Women readily hug each other and laugh. Women talk to each other as they walk. They don't just live on a different wavelength they live on a completely different radio programme. A woman who would shudder at the thought of walking two miles in the country but will willingly cover ten miles carrying the entire contents of the Brighton shops. Women are happy to shop.

Men on the other hand are solitary animals. They live under the fear of being discovered within fifty miles of a shop. Worst still the thought of being caught in the ladies lingerie dept is closely akin to standing naked in the arctic. Men when they talk to men on the streets do so quietly but to a woman he will be completely different.

The men who appear, appear in style. There are the raucous youths who blatantly watch the girls then revel in boisterous comments. There are new fathers with  babies seconded to them whilst their wives wander the Aladdin's caves.

Occasionally more mature men appear, they're usually towing teenagers. The teenagers are usually busy vying for desperate funds to compete with their peers.

Older men have the sense to be a little more laid back. Reading their faces is a road map of places that they are not prepared to go. Dress shops, shoe shops are top of the list. You can witness the cunning ploys designed to maintain an older mans interest, most of which fail. Men park on the chairs around me and try avoiding the inevitable.

Crotchety men like me have learnt to say "Ah Blow It" and then sit and watch. Right enough a man can say this when has just learnt to speak. It's not until he reaches the grand old age of his bus pass that he

actually knows what it means. My bus pass has gone crinkly on the edges so I am fully qualified.

        If I wanted to sit alone then I would have to find a mountain top, and there aren't a lot of them around Brighton. Fortunately, I never want to be alone. I enjoy the banter and the pleasantness of strangers that become temporary friends. I suppose it would help if I didn't have a dachshund on my lap. He is a magnate to children and women alike and I have had many a conversation stimulated by his presence.

        Women who sit and talk are guarded creatures. They test the water with their chatting until eventually they accept the gangly old twit with whom they are conversing. Then the worlds problems just pour out like a jigsaw puzzle in the vain hope that our chat will fit some of the pieces together. Men who stop and talk are far more direct and many a laugh and a joke is poured out as we share a bit of each others lives

The streets aren't just about men and women. Their children are stories on legs. As they walk by they are oblivious to their surroundings and yet in their wake they leave a trail of charm. I am convinced that the only time some children go to sleep is when they are in a pram. When they aren't asleep there is an urgent battle going on to get out of the pram and cause havoc. Toddlers hover between wanting to walk wanting to be carried and just plain let me fall into the pram.

From five years old and upward there is a metamorphic period when boys change into monsters and are pacified with things that make funny noises. Girls change into monsters as well but the range of desires is far more complicated.

The metamorphosis is not restricted to children. When men and women appear in a group there is a game afoot were one sex tries to get the better over the other. Its not intentional, after all who really cares which section is better. Were all interdependent even if its only to score Brownie points. In the end they all sit around the table and eat and drink and laugh at their silliness.

        If I was to say the one thing that fills me up to the brim with warmth it would have to be when I see two friends meet completely out of the blue. I love to witness that pivotal moment when they realize who they are and that they are together again. That flow of uncontrolled joy is so infectious that I catch the joy as much as the two folk who have just met.

Its not all joy and bon home. There are the sad aspects as well. I have worked on the streets of Brighton at night and found the blatant wealth of the day is mirrored by the poverty of the night. Be it financial poverty or moral poverty. Even at this point it is not a bottomless pit of depravity. Rough sleepers are met with food and sleeping bags from charitable sources. Most young folk find that hedonism is not all that its cracked up to be. Given the chance, a better side soon emerges.

I recall one occasion when an appeal went out on the TV for a bone marrow transplant donor. The queue was flooded by folk who had been wild the night before as well as those who found their bed in a shop doorway.

The night before always spills over to the day after. But some how the ugly bits only work to highlight the beauty of folk sharing a day.

One woman who tries to wake the world by 10:25am is the direct descendant of a giant hermit crab. She spends the day pushing one shopping trolley and dragging another. They contain her entire world all wrapped in plastic bags. When I see her on my rounds at night she is usually sleeping by the warm air vent from one of the hotels. I have tried to find her a home but she cant stand to be indoors and wouldn't thank me for my efforts.

Winter and summer alike she appears like a wisp and has about the same effect on those around her as she melts into the background. More often than not she has the coffee that I have reserved for my wife. She never thanks me but that's not her being rude. She is usually so full of the events of the night that she can't get them out in the five minutes she allots me of her life. When she disappears the folk around wave theirs hands across their face to rid them of the smell but I am immune.

The drama isn't restricted to people. Even the vehicles play a part. I am certain that all the delivery drivers in Brighton wait until 10:26am and then make a mad dash for Druids square. The vans crowd into a space barely fit for two vehicles let alone a whole town full. Yet as if set to music they skirt around each other, and the pedestrians, to emerge unscathed and unloaded.

Buskers are a peculiar breed. From them is an untold wealth of raw entertainment. Its live, there are no fancy embellishments. There is an air of completeness when the various one man bands or human statues or jugglers enter the stage. I have never yet seen a performance that was bad. Those who sing flat or those who drop the juggling are every bit as entertaining as the artists of perfection.

I suppose in a sense I do actually go shopping on Saturdays after all. As a writer, the view over my coffee cup is a font of characters and each of them is a story in their self. I purchase them with my time and carry them home in my mind.