The Word Cloud

Ok! Here we go with both feet, I've done this as an exercise in style and I would welcome any comments on the style of the piece. Many thanks to anyone who is willing to take the time to look this over.

WARNING! – Stay off the Beach.

Never mind about water quality or snorkelling through sewage, there is a far more sinister problem on our beaches. There I was yesterday, strolling down the seafront, clear blue skies and the tang of rotting seaweed in the air when I started to feel a little strange. It wasn’t the sweltering heat or the residue of the morning after the night before, it was a vague sort of uneasiness, the sort you get when you think you’ve forgotten to do something incredibly important just as you’re boarding the plane to Majorca.

After a few seconds of furious mental gymnastics; not easy when you’re still hung over, I decided my persistent malaise probably was due to the six pints the night before and so I sucked in my tenacious mid life crisis stomach and doggedly resumed my relaxing stroll.

Another few steps and I stopped again, there was definitely something funny going on. The usual crowds had flocked down to the beach and just like in that Boots telly advert, mums were caking kids in factor 50,000 sun block, Grandmas with skin like 300 year old leather were basking in all the deck chairs and I was feeling definitely out of sorts.

Suddenly the group of young people walking in front of me came to a grinding halt and being somewhat preoccupied, I bumped into the back of a petite brunette, my forward swinging right arm coming into inadvertent contact with her absolutely perfect left buttock. Stumbling backward and sub-vocalising apologies, I couldn’t help but notice she was wearing one of the worlds smallest bikinis; you know the one that’s in The Guinness Book of Records, for being the smallest amount of material that anyone would pay for.

The young lady in question turned languidly toward me, looked me up and down and dismissively dropped me from a great height, straight into her Dad’s pervey mate’s category. Her devastating green eyes glanced over me once more, lingered fleetingly on my marginal pot belly as she slid her gorgeously tanned and beautifully manicured hand over her bottom and absently brushed away whatever it was had been left there by our brief contact.

So much for looking cool; I was now 3 inches tall with a very small penis. Oh well! I hadn’t really been looking at her ass all the way up the seafront and I wasn’t really stopping at the beach kiosk just so I could stand behind her: or was I?

Oh my God! Maybe I am turning into a stalker! I can see the headlines now “Middle Aged Perv Stalks Teen Beach Beauties” There’s nothing else for it, I’m going to have to stand my ground. I can’t slope away without inferring guilt and thereby losing the rest of my metaphorical genitalia. I’ll have to queue and completely dis her. Trouble is, I’m last in the queue and there’s nowhere else to look.

Fifteen agonising minutes later, I’m still furiously not looking at her and I’m still last in the queue. Twenty minutes and my bottle is going, any minute now I’m going to look at her ass and she’s going to catch me doing it; why’s that rotten kid at the head of the queue ordered seventeen portions of chips?

And with that, my guardian angel belatedly notices my dire straits and comes to my rescue. Footsteps and voices behind me, someone I can have a banal chat with and ignore little miss minikini. I turn toward my approaching saviours and there sweat Aunty Ivy and Aunty June. At least that’s what I imagine Aunty Ivy and Aunty June might look like if you stripped them naked, rolled them in last nights leftover Bisto and then shoehorned them into matching lime green Speedo swimsuits.

Two mountains of walking overcooked cellulite with thighs that would do justice to a well fed wildebeest look me up and down, smile winsomely and;

‘Lovely day,  init?’

‘Yeah, lovely’, thinking No, it’s bloody awful.

Aunty June’s left eyelid droops suggestively mimicking her triple G frontage and asks ‘Where the best place for a girl to get a drink round ere then?’

Oh bloody hell! They’re on the pull and everyone else in the vicinity is looks either under 16 or over 80 so it must be me they’re intent on befriending. My vague unease suddenly accelerates in outright panic; little miss perfect buns is looking over her shoulder at me with a malevolent smirk on her face; Cow! And Aunty June is edging closer with a predatory claw extended.

With that my entire life flashes before me as I realise what’s been nagging at me. This is what I’ve got to look forward to,  I’ve got to face up to the fact that I’m never going to pull a supermodel look-alike. There’s no going back and I really don’t want to go forward. Roll on state pension and plaid slippers.

So there it is in a nutshell, if you’re of one of my unfortunate comrades in arms coping manfully with middle age in a world full of nasty surprises; stay away from the beach, it’s bloody dangerous down there.