Friday, July 18, 2003
Beached Wails
It’s been an untypical English summer. Untypical in the fact that it has been long, hot, sunny and very dry. And I have to admit that being out of work in weather like this is a positive blessing. It wasn't that long ago I glanced gloomily out of the windows of my 3rd floor office (too high to people-watch, too low for spectacular views) at the sun baking down the vast grey, soul-less tarmac of Euston Station, and prayed for the clock to move around to 5.30, like a parched man in a desert prays for rain.
Now, I can spend all day at my PC in the spare bedroom doing exactly the same thing – only the view is the house across the road, and I can slope off for a pizza and The Richard and Judy Show at midday. Or, if I’m feeling particularly generous with myself, I can have a day off and wander down to the river five minutes walk away and grab an Alco pop at one of the riverside pubs. I can stroll through Richmond Park or visit Kew Gardens if I’m feeling particularly fit and healthy, or I can do what I enjoy best – pressing my nose against the window of my favourite clothes and shoe shops in town and frightening all the shop assistants.
And the beauty is that I can do it all in an average of 27° heat and glorious sunshine.
From March to present, it’s been hot, hot, hot all the way. Significant Other and I have stored up some great memories for those dark cold winter nights. “Do you remember,” we shall reminisce as, in the flickering light of the television, we wrap the duvet tighter round us on the living room sofa, “do you remember when we drove up to Shropshire in the convertible and spent all weekend in a rented farmhouse with friends, sunbathing and eating carbonised burgers from the barbecue?”
But hey, that’s skipping ahead a few months and the highlight of summer has yet to arrive.
The Dreaded Beach Holiday.
I say “dreaded” because for me, the one thing that keeps popping into my mind as I tick off the days on the calendar, is my flabby pale stomach and pendulous chest stretching my one piece into dimensions undreamt of when it was stitched together by a small Asian in a sweat shop somewhere off the main highway to Taipei city. Please don’t tell me to try diet and exercise because I have – and honey, it don’t work if your body KNOWS you have to shed those extra pounds. I can feel smug nibbling Ryvitas and bouncing along to my Cher workout video for the next couple of weeks, but those scales are still going to be groaning when I mount them again the night before we leave. I can console myself that I tan very quickly so I thank my stars that at least my flesh will have a healthy colour. I can then look like a cooked turkey instead of one yet to be wrestled into the oven. And God bless the inventor of digital cameras. Now I can edit Significant Other’s photos for unflattering shots taken at ant level upwards and print the censored and heavily edited results without suffering the indignities of Boots’ photo counter two weeks later.
Beaches can be a nightmare if you’re the wrong side of 30 (years, goddamn you, not stone!) and curvaceous to boot, but I’ve found a particularly effective way of flattering a figure without too much physical and mental stress.
Sunbathe next to someone bigger and uglier than you are.
Now, I can spend all day at my PC in the spare bedroom doing exactly the same thing – only the view is the house across the road, and I can slope off for a pizza and The Richard and Judy Show at midday. Or, if I’m feeling particularly generous with myself, I can have a day off and wander down to the river five minutes walk away and grab an Alco pop at one of the riverside pubs. I can stroll through Richmond Park or visit Kew Gardens if I’m feeling particularly fit and healthy, or I can do what I enjoy best – pressing my nose against the window of my favourite clothes and shoe shops in town and frightening all the shop assistants.
And the beauty is that I can do it all in an average of 27° heat and glorious sunshine.
From March to present, it’s been hot, hot, hot all the way. Significant Other and I have stored up some great memories for those dark cold winter nights. “Do you remember,” we shall reminisce as, in the flickering light of the television, we wrap the duvet tighter round us on the living room sofa, “do you remember when we drove up to Shropshire in the convertible and spent all weekend in a rented farmhouse with friends, sunbathing and eating carbonised burgers from the barbecue?”
But hey, that’s skipping ahead a few months and the highlight of summer has yet to arrive.
The Dreaded Beach Holiday.
I say “dreaded” because for me, the one thing that keeps popping into my mind as I tick off the days on the calendar, is my flabby pale stomach and pendulous chest stretching my one piece into dimensions undreamt of when it was stitched together by a small Asian in a sweat shop somewhere off the main highway to Taipei city. Please don’t tell me to try diet and exercise because I have – and honey, it don’t work if your body KNOWS you have to shed those extra pounds. I can feel smug nibbling Ryvitas and bouncing along to my Cher workout video for the next couple of weeks, but those scales are still going to be groaning when I mount them again the night before we leave. I can console myself that I tan very quickly so I thank my stars that at least my flesh will have a healthy colour. I can then look like a cooked turkey instead of one yet to be wrestled into the oven. And God bless the inventor of digital cameras. Now I can edit Significant Other’s photos for unflattering shots taken at ant level upwards and print the censored and heavily edited results without suffering the indignities of Boots’ photo counter two weeks later.
Beaches can be a nightmare if you’re the wrong side of 30 (years, goddamn you, not stone!) and curvaceous to boot, but I’ve found a particularly effective way of flattering a figure without too much physical and mental stress.
Sunbathe next to someone bigger and uglier than you are.
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