with Jimmy and I as bemused bystanding tweenies
Eastbourne. A seaside resort on the South Coast of England. Not far in miles from either Brighton or London but a lifetime away for its people.
Eastbourne is a resort for elderly people. I have stayed in two different Eastbourne hotels and they have both - unlike any other hotel I know - insisted on keys being left at reception for 'fire reasons'. The trendy winebar has a sign in the window "Pot of tea and a cake £1.90".
We chose Eastbourne because it is not Brighton. We chose wisely. What a place to people-watch.
As we emerged on Saturday afternoon to take a prom we saw many very elderly people, some of them accompanied by care assistants, many with wheelchairs or scooters, and a majority, it seemed, with walking sticks. If you can't walk very far, there is little better than to sit on Eastbourne prom amidst the colourful, if municipally formal, flowerbeds, soaking in the September sun, sensibly wrapped in a cardigan.
We were in Wetherspoons for a couple of hours. Quite unlike any other Wetherspoons I have been in. A large and crowded pub, with probably only thirty people older than me.
It was tremendous fun to watch the fashion parade to and fro the loos. Nearly every woman took her drink with her (WKD or Aftershock or Smirnoff Ice or Breezer...in Wetherspoons that sells Real Ale for £1.59 and Chablis for £9.95 a bottle). I can understand the desire no to have anything slipped in, but I wondered what was wrong with the age-old to one's mate "Watch me drink while I go and pee." Only thing was - not one woman went to the loo alone. Every last one went with a mate.
The clothes on display were hilarious. Not one woman looked comfortable. It is sad that so many women dare to wear a shoulderless, strapless top and then lack the confidence to wear it properly. Result - rounded shoulders and a premature Dowagers Hump. Shoes so tight and high that necessitate hopping from foot to foot every few moments - and long before the clubs even open! Constant checking that the micro-mini hasn't ridden up above the knickers. Thankfully few thongs above waistband. There was one, though. Cropped top, skirt down on her hips, utility knicks above the waistband, and still she fidgeted constantly to ensure they were fashionably displaying. Unfortunately she also displayed a midriff that yelled 'puppy fat'.
One wore white shoes with a black outfit. One looked absolutely fab in a black top and flowing black trousers. Ruined by fuschia court shoes. There was the woman with the shoes that tied round her calves, like ballet shoes, and they separated the flesh into individual lumps. Her mate who was exceptionally tall, and thin, in five inch heels, who spent the entire time with her knees bent self-consciously at 45 degrees. Elegant slim woman in a black-and-white harlequin top and skirt ,and her frumpy fatty mate in the identical outfit. The girl in the pleasant black outfit. Shame she had to tie a horizontally striped scarf around her to make her bum, yes, look enormous in it.
I'm struggling to describe the men. All of them were in shirts and trousers and shoes. I couldn't decide whether it was the cut of shirt and design of shoe that shouted 'ned', Or that the shirt was always outside the trousers. I concluded that, above all, it was the splayed-feet walking. And the trio with hoops in both ears - most of the men just had a hoop in one ear.
Then we looked more closely. Many of them were children. The boys looked about sixteen, some of the girls were barely into their teens. The most sophisticated were probably no more than nineteen. It was a parade of meat, desperate to pull, shouting hormones. Most of the girls will be parents by twenty. The boys too, but they will return to join the thirty-year old 'dirty old men' poised at the junction for the loos, waiting to pounce on the girl who wants a sophis'iki'ed older man.
At three o'clock the concert began in the bandstand. From quarter past two the pensioners congregated to ensure the best deckchair in the house. Some of the men placed knotted handkerchiefs over their balded heads. The conductor introduced the first piece - the 'National' Anthem. As one, the pensioners rose, out of respect.
Earlier we had been sitting near the pier eating our fish and chips and mushy peas. A group went by - four Asian women in their thirties with six or seven children, the boys with the little Sikh topknot. They spoke to each other in the language of their parents. The old lady next to us "I don't fink dey should be allowed to come here if dey can't speak English." Who said they can't speak English?
Earlier still, on the beach, a family sat down near to us. Too near and too loud. Except for the older daughter, who was about thirteen and incapable of speech. Little sis (9 or 10) and Dad played in the sea. Mother relaxed and watched the waves. Teenager didn't remove her jacket, sat with her back to the sea and her family, and spent half an hour repeatedly picking up pebbles and dropping them again.
Two young girls - 11 or 12 - walked to the water's edge and enjoyed paddling their feet. Repeatedly, they unconsciously checked that the writing on their knickers was clearly visible above the low-slung waistlines of their denim skirts. They joined their friends and indulged in pebble throwing at each other. And me, just before I glared furiously.
