For someone who bangs on all the time about how much I love the city, I am actually pretty flipping keen on the beach. Who isn’t, right? What’s not to like about the beach? Well, apart from it’s often very cold. Either that, or very windy and you end up with a lot of sand in your ears, which takes ages to pick out. And a lot of sand in your sandwiches. And in your crisps, especially if you drop them. Also, there’s no shade. Or shelter. Or anywhere to sit. And it’s very hard to walk on sand. Even harder to walk on stones.

Yeah apart from that.

The thing I like most about the beach is that it’s very democratic. All ages and social classes meet together in an almost revolutionary atmosphere of equality, fraternity, liberty, and universal chips for all.

You don’t need money to have fun on the beach. No one cares what kind of house you live in. (Unlike in a village, where what kind of house you live in is of the UTMOST importance. It tends to be the first thing anyone asks. They say, ‘SO, do you live in the VILLAGE? Oh you do, do you? WHERE in the village??’ And then they get out a sharp pencil and their Gazetteer of The Village and work out exactly where you come in the Great Chain of Village Life. (In my case – the very very bottom.)

On the beach, you don’t need to be ashamed of your address in the slums of Greater Floppington or wherever you live. You can live in a castle! Well at least you can build your own, with turrets and flags and crenellations and a moat. (I don’t normally do crenellations, to be honest. Slightly beyond my engineering capabilities. But there would be nothing to stop me, if I wanted to.)

And on the beach, you can wear what you like. You can even strut about in your pants if you want to. At least, I think that’s the rule. It’s the rule I’ve been following all my life, so now might be a good point to tell me if I have this wrong. On many beaches, you can even forego the top half altogether, as long as you ensure you apply factor 30 AT LEAST to your nipples. Or a couple of strategically placed shells.*

And on the beach, you can make your own fun. This is usually the kind of fun that really annoys capitalists, because it doesn’t cost anything. For example:

1. Lobbing stones into the sea. Or, if you are a bit fancier, skimming stones into the sea. You can even try the second one, and then pretend you were doing the first one when your super-duper skimming stone goes PLOP first time. Not me, though. Mine just did, like, 17 skims! No, it did, really! Yeah, just before you got here. Yeah.
2. Having a look around for the most overdressed woman on the beach. Oh look, there she is. Almost didn’t see her there, because she’s jammed in the corner of that palatial windbreak, trying to protect her hairsprayed up-do from the fresh breeze and approaching sea-fret. Let’s hope the tide doesn’t come in suddenly, because I don’t fancy her chances legging it up the dunes in those 5-inch heeled silver ‘Look-at-me!’ shoes.**
3. Burying your favourite family member in the fresh sand. A bit like The Family tradition of burying your enemies in fresh concrete down at the docks, but slightly less fun. Better make sure it isn’t quick sand. Heh heh heh.
4. Poking around in rock pools. Possibly the best fun to be had anywhere, any time. Especially getting something really disgusting and slimy out of there and dropping it down your mum’s back. Heh heh heh heh.
5. Eating all day long. When you’re at home, a meal generally needs to be aligned to some sort of expected meal time, for the sake of form. If you suggest starting a new meal about half an hour after the last one was finished, people tend to look at you askance. Or else they nudge the bathroom scales at you, surreptitiously, with their foot. On the beach, though, it’s all different. Mealtimes are for losers. For landlubbers. You can have a chip sandwich with a candy-floss chaser and then have five of those deep fried doughnuts (they’re only little!) followed by an ice cream and a flake and chopped nuts. And a fudge stick. And still have room for breakfast. I’d just give it a while before you go on the Waltzer, just to be on the safe side.

99 anyone?

* NB I know I am usually a bit flippant, but this part of the blog is DEADLY serious. Sunburnt nipples are nothing to laugh about, believe me.

** those readers over a certain age might substitute this description for Germaine Greer’s uber-sisterly memorable phrase for the ‘attention-seeking’ shoes of Suzanne Moore. In *1995*! 16 years ago, God help us all.