If one were not for scrapping, it would be offered this summer as a beach companion without ulterior motives to all those women whose partners refuse to bask in the sun, smear or be smeared with protective creams and play a decent role on the sand
- I'm sick of you leaving me alone on the beach! What a boring man!
Far from arguing and defending themselves, the legion of married people who are allergic to a good morning at the beach usually resort – well, some also in winter – to the tricky but infallible trick of getting themselves forgiven.
-First thing in the morning, I put the towels and your deckchair in the first line. I'm going on my bike to buy the croissants, I'm waiting for you in no hurry to get down to the beach and then you turn around, go into the water or the first friend appears, I run out to a terrace and I'll see you there. And about lunch (he had some calamari a la Romana on the terrace), don't worry. Fresh gazpacho from a jar!
I understand these beach widows who get frustrated with their husbands, white people. If they have agreed to spend their holiday on the coast, what is the point of the subsequent resistance to the sand, the chats with other couples who casually come over to say hello or the relaxing sound of the sea, the sea and the children, the sea and the parents of the children who record their antics, the sea and motor boats, the sea that gave birth to us?
- The sun makes me drowsy...
- Calm down, silly, I bought you a casual cap.
How can anyone find a beach boring? Beaches, for example, encourage constructive criticism.
– Where is she going with this bikini!
Also a calm reflection on educational policies, pedagogical values and the children we will leave in this world.
- Look, the bastard has collapsed two other castles, he has hit Mr. Chubby with a Chilean ball and his parents so calmly, without saying anything to him.
There are some that do endure, as a copy of the underground game.
-When you stop looking at those tattooed girls, yes, the ones in thongs, would you mind passing me the bottle of Evian, love?
