People of all ages, shapes and sizes were wearing as little as possible to take full advantage of this epic heatwave. Except me, of course. I admired the collective sense of “sod it all, it’s hot and I’ll wear just enough to avoid indecent exposure” and probably would have joined in if I had anything suitable. This afternoon tattooed surfer boys, young mums in bikinis and old men who had run out of fucks to give about public decency roamed freely.
The first free-range old dude I saw staggered from the beach as best he could after several hours baking in temperatures exceeding 30°c, laden with bags, towel over his shoulder and sporting a pair of tight trunks. He looked at me… “look at my pants!” he said. “Sir,” I mentally replied, “I’m trying to look anywhere but your pants, but thank you for the offer.” I actually replied “it’s a good day for sunbathing.” He agreed and staggered towards his car where no doubt he planned to start the engine, turn the air conditioning up full blast and curse the weather gods for turning him into a giant peanut while he had a nice afternoon nap on the beach.
Later, while Michael had wandered off a’snapping, another chap had settled on the bench next to mine. Like Mr Peanut, he had done battle with the heat and come away rather worse for wear. I didn’t know he was there until he got up, walked over to me and asked me to help him put his shirt on. There were loads of people around, but he zeroed in on me. Why? And why did Mr Peanut so enthusiastically ask me to admire his underoos? They know, that’s why. They know I’m changing career to nursing. They know I’ll be looking for work as a carer when I’ve had my op. They were giving me a chance to practice my caring nature and see how I react when approached by a scantily-clad and slightly loopy (although in this heat I think we’re all slightly loopy) old dude. I wonder if I could use them for references now? “Contact Mr Peanut, Teignmouth, Devon.”