I would hazard a guess that most women take one look and harumph quietly to themselves knowing that the reality is somewhat different. I've just returned from a lovely girlie week in the South of France, most of which was spent lying on a sunbed under a very big parasol at the beach plugged into my iPod looking out over an azur sea. Heaven.
St Aygulf
Cap Dramont
I took the opportunity to do my own little straw poll of this year's beach fashions and, as the days passed, realised that it is possible to tell someone's nationality from their swimwear. The Italians were all drama and bling, a woman who had long passed 50 desported herself alongside me in an emerald green sequin bikini and her friend was in gold lame, brave indeed.
The French were the epitome of chic, usually in black complete with Louis Vuitton bags, although I have to admit to a sense of satisfaction that even the slimmest of French women can get it wrong, and that a thong is not a good look on anyone over the age of 18 months after which buttocks no longer resemble dewy peaches more chicken skin.
The Dutch were all sensible crocs and hefty tankinis, my favourite was the chap who clearly loved his homeland so much that he'd stepped out in orange crocs, orange t-shirt and orange patterned shorts, a head to foot tango experience.
And then there were us Brits. I always think of the teacher who'd write 'could try harder' on my school reports when I'm trying to put myself together for the beach. In my mind I'm going to look just like one of those glossy magazine features, after all I've found a flattering swimsuit and wrap, had the St Tropez tan, painted my toe nails, slicked on the lip balm.....
I really should have learned by now that it's a waste of time and money....within minutes of stepping foot on the beach there's sand in every orifice, my hair looks as if I've stuck my fingers in an electric socket and my nose is bright pink. Still, a girl can but dream.....one day I'll crack that beach goddess look.
My French hideaway.
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