I WOULD not worry had not the wealth and excitement of Cannes moved Wendy Miller to such rage. What is it that makes us deride something we admire?
British lit is a love affair with the class war: tales of both wealth and poverty that drive both to foolishness and self-congratulatory misery.
Now bankers flushing loos with champagne are odious but dustmen chip-fatting themselves to an early grave are no ideal either.
Everyone in Britain is absorbed in exclaiming how rich they are or how poor they are. The whole thing is a vision of despair. Wendy takes on this tired mantle when she assumes prosperity is never spread around or can never be.
A better life for everyone in a town requires ideas, effort and oversight. Contentment is great but without aspiration it decays. And a new generation raised without aspiration is not so great.
Of course Eastbourne is not Cannes. Nor was Mr. Rasala insisting it should be.
But if Wendy thinks even thinking about improving Eastbourne is bad, or that growing prosperity and charm and good places to eat is not for the likes of her and us, that is worrying.