The smartest girl in Fowey

The sea air, the sound of seagulls, the lardy tattooed women bending the arms of the beanpole men they’re clinging onto while pigeon stepping over the hot sand to the cool of the sea. The triangle torso gaggle of blokes appriciativly rubbing suntan into each other looking more like the a platoon of The Old Compton Chosen than a group of Cornish lads out to impress the female of the species. Time moves on but the charactures of the British seaside holiday remain the same.

In my time youth the tattooed ladies had belly button piercings and before that Bay Watch high thigh one pieces. The boys have gone from speedos to impractical baggies. The sea of grey hair on the biddies has been replaced by a sea of blonde dye hards wearing leopard print beech wraps and sarongs they bought back from those early Spanish package holidays.

We dined at Sams in Fowey town. Outside Sams doorway a vision walked by and she stirred memories. Perhaps a glamours lady who sunbathed on the beech at Felixstowe of my childhood or one of the Regal ladies who frequented the tea shops of Cordys or the Regal on the front.

Whoever you are, your style is lovely.

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