Panther is muttering into his beer, an odd look on his face.
“What?”
“That woman over there…”
“Yes.” He’s looking at half of an unremarkable couple tucking into paella on the other side of the restaurant. She seems to me like she’d probably choose to read Woman’s Own at the hairdresser.
“I’ve seen her bits,” he confesses. “All of them.”
“Oh. I know.”
Boys One and Two devour pizza and chips, oblivious.
Thing is, the nearest beach to our campsite, and probably the best with rocky bits and waves that chase you is a nudist beach and we’re fascinated.
The topiary alone is giving us cause for comment.
But we’re easy-going and if they don’t mind my M&S cossie I don’t mind them letting it all hang out.
One thing puzzles us though: in what way is the perfectly understandable urge to be a naturist connected to the entirely inexplicable desire to leap up and down in an unseemly game of bat and ball?
It knocks Federer and Nadal into a cocked hat for sheer irresistible viewing.