Took a group of Polish students to St Ives. I met they at the big screen in the city centre at 10am. Their teacher was a young blonde in her early 20s who wore lots of make up and spoke perfect English. For some reason, she made a deep impression on me. Maybe 10 years in Thailand had made me particularly susceptible to sassy, self confident blondes.
I was not the only one she made an impression on. A passing local Plymouthian man, in tracksuit and trainers, beer can ready in his right hand, stopped and stared. He scratched at his crotch for a moment and then nodded appreciatively.
"Hey, blondie!" he called.
The blonde turned to look. He made a thrusting motion with his hips and nodded again.
"You're alright!" he said.
We walked the students down to where the coach was waiting. The blonde's gallant admirer followed us for a while and then got swallowed up by the crowds of shoppers. We boarded the coach. Dave the driver nodded cheerily at me.
"Bloody hell, some hot 'uns you got today mate! Where they from?"
"Poland," I said.
He shook his head sadly. "I can't speak Russian," he said gloomily.
The journey to St Ives took 2 hours. The students settled down to listen to their ipods or take selfies. When we got to St Ives, the weather was perfect, the bright Cornish sunlight reflecting off the white sandy bottom of the bay creating a turquoise almost tropical effect with the light. I got the Polish blonde to pose for a photo with me. The result - for me - was the perfect idealized representation of what summer was all about. All summed up neatly in one picture. The Reader shall hear about what happened the next time I met this blonde nearly 6 months later.
I was not the only one she made an impression on. A passing local Plymouthian man, in tracksuit and trainers, beer can ready in his right hand, stopped and stared. He scratched at his crotch for a moment and then nodded appreciatively.
"Hey, blondie!" he called.
The blonde turned to look. He made a thrusting motion with his hips and nodded again.
"You're alright!" he said.
We walked the students down to where the coach was waiting. The blonde's gallant admirer followed us for a while and then got swallowed up by the crowds of shoppers. We boarded the coach. Dave the driver nodded cheerily at me.
"Bloody hell, some hot 'uns you got today mate! Where they from?"
"Poland," I said.
He shook his head sadly. "I can't speak Russian," he said gloomily.
The journey to St Ives took 2 hours. The students settled down to listen to their ipods or take selfies. When we got to St Ives, the weather was perfect, the bright Cornish sunlight reflecting off the white sandy bottom of the bay creating a turquoise almost tropical effect with the light. I got the Polish blonde to pose for a photo with me. The result - for me - was the perfect idealized representation of what summer was all about. All summed up neatly in one picture. The Reader shall hear about what happened the next time I met this blonde nearly 6 months later.
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