Brighton is the place to be or so the advertisements on the buses tell us. My theory is that it's the place to be nekkid! Yes, you read correctly. Brighton features its very own nude beach: denuded of sand, denuded of people wearing clothing!
OK, so there's nothing inherently wrong with a nude beach. Vancouver has one. Big deal. Ha! But Brighton's Nude Beach (the place to be) is a special beach! It's the only nude beach I've seen where people who are not actually on the beach can gawp (that's gawp, not gape) at the ... spectacle. The reason for this is that while the beach's designers (do people really design beaches?) thoughtfully made the beach hidden from view at sea-level using tasteful, evergreen bushes (no naked tress here!), there are two walking promenades raised high above sea-level from whence one can observe all, in full, glowing technicolour.
I can personally testify to the technicolour. On a cold and blustery day, hearty Canadians that Stephen and I are, we bundled up until we looked like abomidable clothes people and headed out to the supermarket. While walking along one of those higher promenades, Stephen and I happened to look down and catch full sight of a man parading about. Somehow he had lost his clothing. He didn't seem overly concerned as he vigorously walked about, waving his arms about with everything (and we mean everything) blowing in the wind. We weren't quite sure what all the waving was. We were sure of one thing: bet he wouldn't be doing that in Canada in January!
I saw the same (well, I can't really be sure. One naked person from several hundred feet up in the air looks the same as another) man doing his "airing the tackle" bit on another day. This day, unlike the previous one, was a beautiful day. Not outdoor tanning weather in Edmonton, granted, but clear and sunny, it was. This time he wasn't alone. No, he hadn't been joined by other arm-waggling nudists but by the well-dressed citizenry of Brighton who were engaged in taking in the fresh air and the view. All of it.
Maybe they should change the slogan to "Brighton: The Place to Bare (It All)" or "Brighton: It's All Bare For You!"?
Picture a woman going into a cellular phone store. She's done her research. She knows what she wants. She wants it now. She's prepared to pay the price. It sounds like an ideal situation for the merchant, right? All he has to do is take her money and run and everybody's happy. Ha!
Woman: (Brightly) Hi! I'd like a cellular phone, please.
Clerk: Certainly. Did you have one in mind?
Woman: Yes! I'd like the Super-Duper-Extra-Expensive Cell 6592, with the multi yack-pack.
Clerk: Splendid! (See commission dollar signs ringing up in his eyes). Let's just do this paperwork here.
... time goes by ...
Clerk: That'll be fine. Let's see. Oh, you're from Canada.
You'll need to pay a deposit on the phone contract.
It's *only* £100 and you'll get that back after a year.
Woman: OK. Here's my Visa card.
Clerk: Lovely. Let me just run that by the phone network.
... clerk talks on the phone a bit ...
Clerk: (Embarrassed) Errr... They're having problems with their authorization system.
They think they'll have it fixed in 20 minutes or so.
Here, have a few pounds and take yourselves out for coffee.
When you come back, I'm sure it will all be sorted.
... woman goes out for coffee and comes back ...
Woman: Everything OK?
Clerk: Your Visa card was Canadian. (Big surprise!) We need a UK credit card or debit card.
Woman: Uhm... Well, maybe I can use somebody else's. Hang on.
... Calls up somebody local and scams their debit card number ...
Woman: Yes, here we go. Try this one.
... Clerk calls back phone network people ...
Clerk: Errr... They want a UK issued one in your name.
Woman: Well, I don't have one. How about a bank cheque?
I'm sure my bank could whip me up a certified cheque.
Clerk: (Even more embarrassed) We can't take a cheque for it.
Woman: How about cash? I can give you the deposit in cash.
Clerk: (Shamefaced) I'm dreadfully sorry, but we can't take cash either.
Woman: What do you mean you can't take cash?!
Unlike the majority of us, apparently the cellular phone network favours credit over cold, hard cash. What can I say? I know when my money isn't wanted! I did eventually obtain a cellular phone but it was quite the dance.
I picked a beautiful day to try out my newly unpacked bicycle. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, it was warm! What more could I ask for? I packed my bicycle with all sorts of EinGoodies and headed off down the primrose path along the sea wall.
All of the beaches along this side of Brighton are rocky. I found this quite surprising given Brighton's historical reputation as a resort town. You think of resort beaches as wide, clean expanses of golden sand, hot beneath your sinking feet. Not in Brighton...
I was riding past a section of the beach near Saltdean, about 5 miles along the coast of Brighton. I passed a sign that said "No walking on the rocks," attached to both sides of a low wall permitting entry to the beach itself. "That's a little odd," I thought, " Given that the beach is made of rocks, where do they expect people to go then?" A little further, I passed another sign: "No climbing on the groynes," it stated. If we had been near the nude beach still, I'm sure that would have made good sense. We can't have all these nekkid people crawling all over one another in public sight; it wouldn't be decent!
Finding this rather intriguing, I stopped and accosted an innocent pair of grandparents enjoying a day at the beach. Groynes, they amusedly explained to me, were these rock/concrete narrow jutting points into the ocean, designed to reduce the intensity of the waves and thus protect the delicate chalk cliffs. I think I like my own explanation better. Stephen, keep off the groynes!
On that same bike ride, I tarried a bit, reading a book I'd brought with me. Big mistake. As anyone knows, when you first start bicycling again, go where you want to go, come back, but do not stop in between! I stopped. I stopped in between for more than a half an hour. The result? A frantic e-mail message, sent via my beloved cellular phone, to Stephen:
EinBum numb. Send help!
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