Dreadful Nonsense

We were standing in the taxi queue outside Brighton train station, shivering in the icy blasts of freezing air rolling in off the street. The line of taxis queuing up the road and around the corner was longer than the queue of people shivering and stamping feet just inside the station, but neither queue was moving very fast thanks to people struggling to get large bags in to small boots. A man and a woman were standing in front of us, looking up at a large advertising hoarding, which held the latest tourist board poster for Brighton, with the name of the town spelt out in three different colours - B-RIGHT-ON.

"I’ve been thinking that for ages, you know," the woman said to the man, "Bright On."

"Be Right On," the man corrected, but she didn’t hear him.

"It’s really clever," she continued, flattering herself, "Bright On, Brighton. I’ve been saying it like that for ages."

"It's an old joke, actually," the man said, while the wall paid more attention to him than the woman.

"Bright On," she said, and then said it again, giving it extra emphasis as if it had all the meaning in the world. "Bright. On."

"Mm," the man concurred.

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