Wednesday 29th September, 11.52am: Signs you are getting close to the sea: Boats for sale, sand instead of soil, pine trees, hotels called “La Marine” and “The Beach”, water slides, posters promoting “Crevettes (prawns) 2.70 euros/kilo”
Friday 1st October, 10.40am: I’ve taken to chatting with strangers. It’s nice, because you can be yourself, no matter how stupid or annoying or boring, and then, after 5 minutes of pointless conversation, you can just go your separate ways, forget all about it, and never have to speak to each other again. Though I must say I have a tendency to attract weirdos…old men usually. I mean, they’re not particularly dangerous. If they tried anything I’d tell them to “Fuck off, you old creep!” and maybe stab them with one of my knitting needles. But no, we just converse about stuff like Australia, France, the weather. I then I break off the conversation and ff we go, separately, never to see each other again. It’s nice. And it’s good for my French.
Friday 1st October, 2.02pm: There is sand in my shoes, and salt in my hair, and it feels great.
Friday 1st October, 6.35pm: This morning I was introduced to a dear old lady, dressed up like a duchess, with a leapord fur coat, painted red lips, and giant pearl earings. She looked me up and down, and, extending a gloved, heavily perfumed hand, exclaimed “My God! What a beautiful flower you are! The Australians are a marvelous race, all tanned and tall and blonde and sporty. You’re a lucky girl!”
Saturday 2nd October, 12.46pm: It has been a long time since I’ve felt the sun beating down on my nose, a long time since I’ve felt my feet in the sand, a long time since I’ve heard the quiet lull of the waves kissing the shore. I must admit, I’ve missed this a lot.
Saturday 2nd October, 10.03pm: He was 37 years old and handsome, in that rugged, worn in, athletic kind of way. Think Hugh Jackman in Australia, but blonder and with a surf board. He was wearing baggy khaki shorts, probably Quicksilver or Ripcurl, and a black t-shirt marked “Kite Surfing. Absolutely the wrong sport for 99.9% of the world”. He was barefoot, a tattooed sting ray swimming prettily up his calf. He took off his sun glasses to reveal a young, tanned, stubbled face, wrought with smile lines. He smiled at me, a broad, genuine smile, and asked me where I came from. At my response his grin grew even wider and he declared that he new my town very well. “Beautful beaches” he said. Yes, Captain Lau-Lau was a wonderful creature, friendly, relaxed, everything that France seems to never be. And the whole time I was there watching him, I couldn’t help but thinking, “Mum would froth over you!”
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