More waffle

Disclaimer: This post is rated Un-PC and may contain explicit imagery. Sensitive souls should seek guidance.

It is another glorious day in the Capital and I have walked some way to be here. Now my toes are busily kneading the warm tiny pebbles that are the sorry substitute for sand here. That's not fair. At least it isn't imported. A seagull is staring at me discontentedly through one beady pale green eye. It is a relatively secluded wee spot and there are only a few brave spirits in the water, including a young guy and a girl wrestling each other, the girl's shrieking like a banshee. Further out two grey heads, apparently much more relaxed with each others presence, bob gently above the surface a metre or so apart.

I have decided that the closest bunch of people on the beach to me are a group of lesbians. They have that look about them. I'm not particularly sure what that look is exactly. Bleached cropped hair perhaps? One of them is topless. I wish she wasn't. Another has a raucous throaty voice and one of them is crouched in front of the others, gesturing in a masculine, emphatic kind of way. Okay, i'm grasping at straws. The whole world can't be petite and pixie like - otherwise, how boring. The crouching one has got up and moved down from the others seeking shade underneath the wooden toilet block raised up on stilts on the beach front. I'm glad I have just been as I know there are rather large gaps in the floor boards and you can see the beach below as you pee. Turns out my hunch was right, the naked one is clinched in a very very familiar embrace with the one in a yellow bikini.

The seagull hasn't moved. I hope it's not waiting to be fed. I have come armed only with notebook, pen, snorkel, towel, sunscreen, a memoir based in rural China under Mao, oh and a chocolate bar for when i emerge from the water, cause I'm usually a little light headed. I can hear the click click of bicycle chains and the gentle purr of cars rolling past behind me, mimicking the lapping sound of the waves. Two sea kayaks paddle sedately past, the eyes of the male companion riveted to the dykes still frolicking in the water. I don't really like that word. So i'm saying it. And I feel suddenly taken aback by how offended I am by their pda, and at my own conservatism, and well, intolerance. And the worst part is I probably wouldn't mind so much if they were hot. One of them is completely naked now. I think. I'm not going to double check.

I'm distracted by an uncharacteristic squeal from one of the grey heads out in the water. The elderly woman is egging on her husband who is freestyling away from her, "swim, swim!" she cries. The lesbians have left the water and a more nuclear family are going for a paddle, clasping themselves tightly and making the water seem somewhat uninviting. Mr Nuclear dips his tiny son in the water and jiggles him like a tea bag. I'm dying to go in but have for some inexplicable reason gone shy. Could it be my growing paranoia that the lesbians have become aware of me and my furiously dancing pen.

I can bare it no longer and self consciously shed my clothing and inch my way painfully across the rocks that form a natural rampart at the shoreline. It's cold. I float on my back and drink in the warmth of the early Autumn sun. There is a slight breeze and every fourth or fifth wave slaps me gently on the face. Shivering, I emerge and retrieve my snorkel and return to fascinate myself with what was previously swimming around my legs undetected. Almost luminescent pale fish, some as long as my hand, starfish that are grainy to touch, and seasnails that suck back into their shells if you uproot them. Plenty of rust and copper coloured seaweed. Although I can't see them, the translucent jelly fish that are sprinkled all over the beach must be lurking down here somewhere.

On the walk home there is a woman in front of me, probably in her fifties with bright cerise toenails and an emergency alert bracelet on her wrist. I am baffled by the plastic bag she is wearing like a glove until I see her gazing across the road and at a path high up on a bank. It is her husband and their dog. The dog is oblivious to the location of the plastic bag and the husband shoots a withering look at his wife while he waits. I have to look out to sea to hide my smile as I walk past her standing with her hands on her hips looking up at them.