by Jilly Cooper
On reflection, however, when I consider I was only in court for about five hours in five days, and how much self-employed time was wasted with the excuse that it is one’s duty as a citizen, I can’t help feeling there are many unemployed people who would leap at the chance of serving on a jury and having something practical and remunerative to do.
We allowed ourselves to be shunted around because we became the depersonalised part of a system, about which many people, including Lord Denning, have grave doubts. Despite the unruffled good nature and consideration of the Old Bailey staff, I feel any contempt of court is aimed principally at the jury.
Nude Without Violin
HAVING LEFT LONDON in a heat wave, to spend the day on Brighton’s nudist beach, I was slightly nonplussed to be greeted by sullen skies and icy winds. As I shivered fully clad on the damp shingle, ludicrously disguised in dark glasses with my hair in a pony tail, the only thing bare was the beach.
I was about to freeze to death when a faint gleam of sunshine appeared, and a gloomy man in maroon started shoving a metal detector over the pebbles. Next a handsome youth, clad from top to espadrilled toe in French navy, sat down beside me, and bravely undressed to his candy-striped underpants.
With the whole beach to choose from, why did the metal detector man feel the need to circle accusingly round and round my towel as though I was sitting over the Masquerade hare. French navy next door, having cautiously removed his underpants, hastily pulled them on again as the metal detector approached.
11 a.m.
Hurray – sunshine, and a vast couple, both looking nine months gone, crunched past us, whereupon she stripped down to her straw hat, and he to the altogether. Odd that he had spent so much time training his spare grey locks over his bald cranium when he was displaying so many acres of spare flesh elsewhere.
Predictably, the man in maroon was soon bearing down on them until, suddenly deflected by a winsome youth in dungarees, he absent-mindedly ran his metal detector over the fat woman’s stomach. Both gave off noisy squawks – perhaps she was on the coil.
The temperature soared, I was down to my bikini, and the beach was filling up, not only with nudists, but also with fully clad spectators, including a Chinaman in an Old Rugbean tie, and an Old English Sheepdog. Several young lads were even frolicking in the sea, which caused a man with a beard and rather too much jewellery to whip out his binoculars and display a keen interest in marine biology.
Nearby, a hefty new arrival bent over, grunting, to remove his socks, and, peering through his legs, caught me looking at him. The trouble with nudist beaches is that everyone hides behind books trying to pretend they’re not looking at everyone else the whole time. Even Jeffrey Archer goes unread.
Noon
After erecting a Wrigley’s spearmint parasol with much wiggling, the fatties were waddling down to the sea for a dip. I gingerly removed my bikini top, only to find an ancient couple had parked themselves on my left. The husband having removed everything except a flapping corn plaster was gazing goatily around him. His wife, rigid with disapproval, remained in her woollen cardigan and floral shirtwaister.
‘It’s disgusting, Gilbert,’ she snapped, mouth shutting like a trap. ‘If they could only see themselves.’
She was right of course. The large majority of people on the beach were men well over fifty, labouring under the illusion that it doesn’t matter what shape you are as long as you’re brown all over. Even worse, their ludicrous uniform is to wear nothing but dazzlingly blancoed gym shoes and a little peaked cap to hide the lack of hair and cast fascinating shadows over the eyes. Half of these ageing satyrs spent their time standing in one place, trying to look noble and boyish like Michelangelo’s David. The rest never stopped sauntering round the beach as though they were modelling birthday suits for the very much fuller figure. Crunch crunch crunch went their white gym shoes on the pebbles.
I was so transfixed by a butch lady with a huge bust, a kind of Alice B. Topless, who was oiling her little husband with great slaps that echoed across the shingle, that I didn’t notice in time that a bespectacled redhead had sat down on my right. Clearing his throat, he peeled speedily down to his freckles.
‘This is the first time,’ he said thickly, ‘I have had occasion to divest myself on a nudist beach. I am what is commonly known as nervous – goodness, these pebbles are sharp.’
Half an hour later, he had not drawn breath. The only pity, he said, was that the lads at the Water Board where he worked would never believe he’d divested himself. Perhaps I could be persuaded to take a photograph of him. Frantic to change the subject, I made the fatuous observation that he must have lots of pressure in his job. Any minute we’d be talking about stopcocks.
Bored with sunbathing – his white skin was already tinged with rose – he produced a camera, and began snapping all and sundry, to their intense irritation. He was just poised to capture goaty Gilbert leering at a buxom brunette, when Gilbert’s shirtwaisted wife gallantly flung herself in front of the camera.
Suddenly my red-headed friend turned on me. ‘You’re the girl who writes for the Mail on Sunday.’
So much for my disguise as an undercovered agent.
‘No I’m not,’ I bleated. ‘I’m always being mistaken for her, but she’s much younger than me – and thinner.’
‘Could have sworn she was you, what’s her name?’
‘Katharine Whitehorn,’ I said firmly.
Mercifully he was distracted by a comely blonde undulating down to the sea with a chain-mail bottom from lying on the pebbles, and promptly snapped her for posteriority.
By afternoon, which was early closing day, the beach was enhanced by some really beautiful people of both sexes. The standard pick-up practice is for a boy to lob pebbles on to a girl’s bare back. If she doesn’t rise mentally or physically, he then goes and swims, and shakes his wet hair all over her. A flurry of Do you Minds invariably follows, and an acquaintance is struck up.
The most absurd female fashion was three naked girls parading round with those space antennae bobbles clipped on to their heads. As though the Martians had landed.
Just below me a plump man, wearing nothing but corespondent shoes, was watching a blond youth in Bermuda shorts playing drakes and drakes. Soon he was joined by a friend. ‘Have you seen Pedro recently? Raoul says he’s all of a sag, isn’t age cruel? Ooch!’ he screeched, leaping in the air as he was goosed by a jolly Labrador.
Spectators were also out in force – mostly middle-aged men in suits. Behind me, a granny in a camel-hair skirt, her two daughters and their assorted yelling offspring had lined up their deckchairs for a jolly good gawp.
‘Look at ’him,’ cackled Granny. ‘Tattooed all over, and I mean all over, must’ave hurt. Stop sucking that pebble, Natalie, you don’t know where it’s been.’
By four o’clock I was dying to swim but too nervous to run the gauntlet of all the eyes. Just as well, for suddenly a large gang of black youths rolled up in immaculate white suits, and stood on the brow of the beach, gazing down at the stretched-out bodies. In such a role-reversed situation, I felt we ought to rise up and do a tribal war dance to entertain them. Aware of incipient menace, male sunbathers started rolling over on their fronts, women huddled into the shingle.
Next minute, the black gang came whooping and zigzagging down the beach, leaping over bodies, ripping away towels.
‘Did you ever see such a grotesque sight, man?’ howled the leader, slithering to a halt behind Alice B. Topless. Instantly they formed a barracking chanting ring round her.
‘Do something, Hildred,’ hissed Alice, quivering with rage. Little Hildred very sensibly cowered behind Iris Murdoch, until the gang got bored and bounded off down the beach to mob-up one of the satyrs, who was nervously employing a C & A carrier bag as a fig leaf. Finally, with a yell of ‘Effing fairies’, the gang took off towards the West Pier, and we all heaved a sigh of relief.
Unable to bear the heat any longer, I crept down to bath
e. Those pebbles were such agony to walk on, it’s impossible not to wobble. Entering the sea, I was startled to see two red bums sticking up in the air. They turned out to be two youths diving for pebbles. I suppose boys will be buoys.
Just as I was up to my waist in blissfully cool green water, I realised I’d left my watch on, and had to stagger back up the beach again. Talk about health and inefficiency.
Shadows were lengthening now, everyone was going in. Seaweed littered the beach like discarded loincloths. Only the fatties were still stretched out. Despite their parasol, they looked somewhat overcooked. Red seals in the sunset.
Rat Race
I AM VERY much looking forward to my first Christmas in Gloucestershire, but wish it would stop raining. An even worse dampener has been put on the proceedings by the prolonged disappearance of the pub cat, which Leo my husband brought down from London on the excuse that it was an early Christmas present. Fazed, no doubt, by the thought of spending Christmas with four neutered toms, she bolted through the cat-door her second morning and went AWOL.
Wednesday
Endlessly comb the surrounding woods and fields looking for cat.
‘A fox will have her head off,’ says the gardener knowingly, then, seeing my face, hastily adds, ‘But don’t worry, she’ll come back.’
Just hunting desperately for Christmas decorations, which also have gone AWOL in the move, when Stan (the male half of the couple who have come to live with us) gives a shout that the cat’s back. Foolishly shrieking with joy, we converge on the hall. ‘Terrified by the din, the cat bolts out into the night. Determined to lure her back, we open the cat-door, and leave large plate of chicken beside it.
Thursday
Gratified that the chicken has been eaten – but suspect junior dog is responsible.
Friday
Pub cat, now known as the Lochness Mouser, is sighted near the shed. Rain continues to sweep in great curtains across the valley – I’m dreaming of a wet Christmas.
Saturday
Junior dog rushes in, crackling. Outside we find badgers have raided our dustbins and scattered tins and chicken bones all over the lawn. Clearing it up, Leo sees large rat strolling past. It gives him an old-fashioned look and trips over a Guinness can.
Sunday
Mouse appears on terrace. Leo is so enchanted he fetches it a piece of Brie. I point senior dog’s head mouse wards, but she looks everywhere except at the offending rodent.
Tuesday
Return from Christmas shopping in London to be greeted by Viv, who says that last night all the water went off, including loos; that the pump is on its last legs; that the washing machine blew her across the room; that the small mouse Leo gave Brie to on the terrace is actually a baby rat and growing fast; and that a hundred rats have moved in under the terrace.
Wednesday
Deeply disappointed by performance of indoor hyacinth bulbs. Their nasty white beaks sticking a quarter inch above the bulb fibre show signs of being nibbled. Try not to contemplate by whom.
Thursday
Gloomily listening to ever-continuing downpour when I hear commotion outside. Find Viv and our two dogs standing on kitchen table, our four cats calmly eating turkey-flavoured Whiskas, as a huge rat saunters across the floor. Join Viv and dogs on table, and give stern pep talk to cats. At this moment two carol singers appear and sheepishly sing ‘Silent Night’. Tell them this is singularly inappropriate carol for this house, and overtip.
Following Wednesday
Rats still in evidence. Our gardener tells me the place is infested because all the rats have been flooded out of their holes by the rain. Perhaps they should build a gnawer’s ark.
Stay up very late doing Christmas cards. Jump out of my skin at sound of squeaking, but realise it is junior dog having a nightmare.
Go downstairs to lock up, wearing thigh boots, to find our two black tom cats in the hall, saying’ After you, Claude, no, after you, Cecil’. Lying between them is a gigantic twitching rat. Cling on to banisters for support but feel I must put it out of its misery. Box file too light, eventually finish it off with Collins English Dictionary, which defines rat as a long-tailed murine rodent.
To think we left London to get away from the rat-race.
Thursday
Council of war at breakfast: no more food to be put out, cat-door to be boarded up. I ring the Council who refer me grandiosely to the Rodent Operative, who promises to come tomorrow. Ring Leo in London, who refuses to take the whole thing seriously, and suggests we put an ad in the village shop for a pied piper.
Sleepless night, listening to rats scurrying, foxes barking, presumably after pub cat, and worrying about the forty-six presents I have yet to buy and whether the turkey will fit into the Aga.
Friday
Temperature dropping fast. Return from village to find Rodent Operative has arrived. A good-looking, winning young man, he refuses all offers of a Christmas drink – perhaps he doesn’t want to be a pie-eyed piper – but systematically goes round putting down poison, while Stan boards up all the holes. The Rodent Operative also says we may later need rat deodorant. As it’s Christmas why not after-shave as well?
Saturday
Hear foxes barking again all night. Milkman says it is going to snow. Feel I must decorate house and ask gardener why our holly tree doesn’t have any berries. As he is explaining it is a male tree which doesn’t produce any, we both suddenly see several berries on a top branch and look away hastily.
Just having grisly vision of grinning foxes sitting in the wood warming their ginger paws in front of the fire, while the corpse of the little cat rotates on a spit, when suddenly I hear a bloodcurdling scream. Rush downstairs to find Viv in the kitchen, with mascara running down her face.
‘What’s happened?’ I whisper.
‘She’s come home,’ she sobs.
And there was the little cat, terribly thin, raging with temperature but still managing to purr like a jumbo jet in Stan’s arms. So it was fatted calves all round. The prodigal cat had returned and for her there was to be no more abiding in the fields. For the first time in ages we all slept like logs.
’Twas the week before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a rat. And a very merry Christmas from me and the pub cat.
Bally-Awful
I WAS EIGHTEEN when I last went to Majorca, and had a riotous time, dallying with a plumber called Ernesto, and a taxi driver called Juan, before ending up in the muscular arms of a telephone mechanic called Angel.
With such fond memories I was wildly excited when Meon offered us a villa in the north of the island. Leo my husband was not. He abhors the whole idea of the Bally-awful islands, as he calls them, and, sourly opening a file entitled ‘Bloody Majorca’, gloomily forecast airport strikes, customs hold-ups and drunken tourists being sick into ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hats.
His sense of outrage increased when he learnt we were flying out on the first day of the test match and, even worse, had a woman pilot. To his intense disappointment, the plane landed on time, the directions across the island were perfect, and the villa – L’Olivar d’Availl – quite ravishing. Like the nicest private house, it had a vast drawing room, five bedrooms, four bathrooms, and sun-trap terraces everywhere.
Even more crucial at 10 p.m. to travellers too weary to go out was a full fridge which included two cooked chickens, cheese and several bottles of wine. At midnight the tiles were still warm on the terrace outside our bedroom. In the garden below cypresses pointed black fingers at huge stars and a full coral pink moon reflected in a swimming pool longer than a cricket pitch.
We were woken by goat bells, cocks crowing and farm dogs barking. Feasting on croissants and apricot jam, I saw two thin stray cats peering down from an olive tree to see if the new arrivals were soft touches. They were. In the supermarket three miles away in Puerto Pollencia, we bought tins of Whiskas ‘con sardina’. Leo perked up when he saw Fernet Brancas on special offer, but winced when
Emily, my fourteen-year-old daughter, and her friend Catriona who’d come with us, purchased such exotic Majorcan delicacies as baked beans, tomato ketchup and Philadelphia cream cheese.
One great plus was that both children were marvellous at amusing themselves, frolicking like porpoises for hours in the turquoise pool, or devouring Mills and Boon novels with screams of laughter. Further plusses were a sweet villa supervisor who popped in to see we were all right and direct us to the best beaches and restaurants, and a wonderful maid called Maria who made the best paella I’d ever tasted.
Dining out in Majorca is cheap but patchy. We found a good restaurant in Puerto Pollencia called Hibiscus, and another in Cala San Vicente called Mary y P, where you dined under a canopy of ivy. I developed a passion for Rape Soup, a fish stock duster-yellow with saffron and groaning with mussels, prawns and crab claws. Other restaurant outings were less successful. Zarzuela was merely lumps of cod in Brown Windsor, and the grilled squid could have acted as a rubber fetishist’s willy-warmer.
We made a few trips to the local beaches: Cala San Vicente, which reeked of sewage; Formentor, by boat, which yielded much to gaze at. Since I last visited the island the women have gone topless, a phenomenon emphasised by the fact that the Majorcans stick their chests out three inches further, whether on land or sea, than any other nation. To avoid being impaled by a massive aquatic brunette, Leo scuttled up the beach.
Mostly we spent our days at the Villa L’Olivar, swimming, sunbathing, watching the dragonflies cruising like Prussian-blue helicopters across the exquisite pool.
By day three we were feeding six cats. Leo, buying ten tins of Whiskas con sardina, was asked by a helpful English tourist if he realised he was buying cat food.
