Observing From a Distance

OK, I’m nosy, I come from a nosy family, but what else is there to do when you’re sitting on the beach and you’ve finished a book, run out of wine, and have no battery on your phone for your Audible book? People watch, of course. The frustrating thing is you never see the whole picture. Families bicker as they leave the beach, couples argue, exposing perceived hurts and trinket sellers get waved away, but what happens next? That’s just it, I don’t know! I’m going to relate one of these occurrences to you and you can make up your own ending.

A middle-aged couple are sitting directly on the beach, no towels or chairs, as if they hadn’t intended to be here. They’re not side by side, but at right angles. Dressed in shorts and heavy boots, she is drinking beer from a bottle, him from a can. She’s on her phone and he’s looking in the opposite direction. They both look as though they want to be somewhere else. Maybe they’ve just finished a long walk, certainly unprepared for sitting on the sand.

In between them and me is a poor, grubby looking woman in dirty pink jeans rolled up to expose even dirtier knees. She is sitting on, and surrounded by, bags and is picking and eating bits of food from smaller bags she plucks out of the selection of larger bags. This is accompanied by low level grumbling, mostly to herself but sometimes she lashes out at people walking by; maybe she thinks they’re too close to her, or going to steal those scraps of food. Everyone, including me, is pretending she doesn’t exist.

A Spanish man leans over the railings and asks the couple something. That’s when I realise they’re English as they say very loudly that they don’t understand him, raise their eyebrows at one another and she pulls her red rucksack closer to her, while he stares at the sea. They don’t say a word to one another.

The grey clouds scud by, getting bigger as the afternoon progresses, and sunbathers give up, put clothes on and retire to the welcoming arms of the bartenders who must love days like this when the early promise of sunshine doesn’t last past 3pm. He’s finished his can now and, after taking his boots off, has started on a bottle, which he takes down to the waters edge where he paddles uncertainly, as if he doesn’t expect the tide to rush in at him, and even more unexpectedly, rush out again.

She’s back on her phone, texting quickly and smiling at replies. She slips it back in her pocket as he approaches but he’s seen it. She wants to go but he says he’ll finish his beer first. Her phone pings and he grabs it off her, and she tries to stop him seeing the screen.

‘You promised, not while we were here’ he says. ‘You promised me you would try.’

‘I have, I am.’ she says, grabbing the phone back.

‘Well, what’s this? You’re still contacting him!’

The woman with the bags who, all this time, has been picking bits of food out and either shaking her head and shouting, or eating and talking quietly to herself suddenly takes an interest in them. She’s very cross now and joins in their discussion, but in Spanish, gesticulating and shouting at them. Astonished, they stare at her, then he gets his boots on and they leave the beach quickly, but she’s on it, puts all her bits of food back in one of the plastic bags, picks them all up and follows the pair. They enter a nearby hotel and she stands outside shouting at them until they scurry out of the lobby and into a lift.

And that’s all I know. You see? It’s very unsatisfactory to be a spectator at one of the (many) dramas played out daily and never to see it through, not to know how it ends. Do the couple settle their differences or is the gulf too great? Did the bag lady know the couple or was it a random fixation? Does she find help somewhere? How would you like it to end?

In other news, it’s carnival time and here’s a couple of photos from the few performances we saw

These middle-aged ladies in their blue glittery flapper dresses and pink Marigolds were the hit of the evening as far as I was concerned. They waved the Marigolds in time to a song, and there was lots of mirrored hand-waving and singing from the audience as they all knew the song. The most endearing feature of the troupe was that most of them were sporting HRT patches and while they wouldn’t have passed the Simon Cowell test, we found them very entertaining.

This was the contest to find the ‘Grande Dama’ of the carnival and the contestants were attached to some amazing contraptions that cost thousands and were so elaborate that it was all the elderly women could do to come on stage, half turn, walk down the stage, another half turn and stagger off. No idea who won!

Always great to see residents, especially the men, dress up, so for your delectation, here’s Pamela Anderson and a Roman soldier with a cowboy. Everyday sights at carnival time.

Thanks for reading/ listening. If you’ve enjoyed this newsletter please tell your friends and come back next month.

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This month I read

Columba’s Bones by David Greig. It’s the ninth century and the Vikings are invading Iona, slaughtering all before them, mostly monks who are virtually orgasmic about being despatched to the Lord above. That sounds grim. Trust me, somehow it’s not, it’s violent, funny and a joy to read. Little more than a novella, it doesn’t waste a word. It’s part of a series of short novels called Dark Lands and i’ll report on the rest as I read them.

River East, River West by Aube Rey Lescure. Alva is born and brought up in poverty in Shanghai by a single American mother. When the book opens the mother - Sloan - is marrying a wealthy Chinese man, Lu Fang. The story runs along two timelines, teenage Alva’s in the current time of the story, and Lu Fang’s history with Sloan. Alva’s character is well drawn and the reader can only sympathise with her poor choices of friends and her desire to go to California where she thinks she would fit in better. She’s not accepted in Shanghai as Chinese, so we wonder would she be accepted in California as American? Loads of teenage angst later the story reaches a bitter sweet ending. A good read.

I’ve listened on Audible to

Dawnlands by Philippa Gregory. The third in the Fairmile series, the others being Tidelands and Dark Tides, it’s a family saga that starts in 1648 during the Civil War and spans over 40 years. Philippa Gregory never disappoints on the historical novel front and this lives up to her reputation. A rattling good yarn has had me gripped over the three books. The setting ranges over southern England, London, New England, West Indies and the characters are very well drawn. So much so that I would like to strangle at least one of them! Worth investing the time to read or listen to all of them.

I’ve watched

Shirley Valentine by Willie Russell revival at the Everyman Theatre in Liverpool. Let me declare an interest. I saw the original production a million years ago, with Noreen Kershaw in the role and she was brilliant, but part way through the run she fell ill, so Willie Russell himself took over and read the part, and I couldn’t resist the novelty of seeing his take on the role. He was different but brilliant too. So the new production had a lot to live up to because in my memory I had seen perfection - twice! you might wonder if the play has dated - not at all because the hopes and aspirations expressed by Shirley are timeless and relevant today for lots of women. Helen Carter plays the downtrodden housewife Shirley Bradshaw, who had lost her real self, her Shirley Valentine self, in years of dull, staid marriage, wondering why we were given all these years if we didn’t use them. She is magnificent. It’s a terrific script anyway but Helen brought Shirley to life with love, passion and longing, a wonderful performance. The set was gorgeous, a working kitchen in which she made chips and egg for a husband who was expecting mince, which she had fed to her employer’s vegetarian dog because she felt sorry for it. ‘It’s a bloodhound, the clue’s in the name’. We all cheered when the second act opened and Shirley was in Greece, liberated happy, escaping the oppression of husband and (grown-up) children, exchanging futile remarks to her kitchen wall for more joyful and optimistic discussions with a rock on a beach. She has found Shirley Valentine again and this time she’s not going to let go. The direction was beautifully handled by Stephen Fletcher and lots of the original Liverpudlian references which have been lost over its years of touring and West End runs, have been reinstated in this brilliant production. Phrases that have passed into many a family’s vocabulary including ours, like ‘Passport, tickets, money’, are all back and it’s great to hear them. Go and see it if you can get in. Not many seats left but I hear the run may be extended. Can’t praise it enough!

Conclave. Too long, too self-indulgent and too much of Ralph Fiennes gurning at the screen. Liked the politics of it though.