This morning the cloud is so low-lying that I can scarcely see the headland opposite the bay. Still, the waves are fantastic and the sea is dotted with surfers who have made it into the sea and onto boards, and it's only around eight o'clock in the morning. They can keep their relentless fresh air and I'll keep my pyjamas and cup of tea. Thanks.
Yes, you will have surmised that I am not in London but North Devon where a friend of mine has a family home. A group of gays have descended on Croyde bay to celebrate the birthday of one of our number. But whilst usually my entourage has a mix of ages and demographics, this is (largely) a relentlessly young batch. One of the guys is twenty-two years old which frankly gave me pause last night. Until he took his shirt off to dance to Rihanna around eleven thirty. Given that, and the volume those Summer of '08 dance tracks were being jacked out on a B&O system (that's quite some oomph, trust me) while the storm to end all storms lashed the large screen windows with high winds and thick rain, it's just as well the house is a little way out of the main village. Angered locals would be pumelling the door down if we were any closer to civilisation.
Much earlier, some hours before the dancing began, while the young ones complained bitterly about the whole concept of the thing, I absolutely loved getting onto the beach for a walk amid the swirling drizzle and crashing waves. Yes, I got my feet wet, which is where I usually hit my tipping point into the realm of 'wouldn't it be much better viewing this from a comfortable armchair' but despite my arriving at the pub with hair blown inside out and back to front like a Rita Sullivan shampoo and set, it was worth every second. Those youthful gays I mentioned earlier peeled off for alcohol and warmth fairly quickly, leaving the stalwart over-30s to pick up the slack. One of us even brought down a wetsuit and considered putting it on, but I left him to it. Even for me, that's a bridge too far.
MGMT Kids
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