The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.
CONFESSIONS FROM A NUDIST COLONY
Timothy Lea
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Also Available in the Confessions Series
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ says Sid. We have just come out of The Highwayman and he is gazing across the rolling expanse of couples trying to have it off in the middle of Clapham Common.
‘The first bit of sun always brings them out,’ I say.
‘What are you on about?’ says Sid, irritably. ‘I was referring to spring unfurling her mantle of green, not that bloke tucking his shirt down the front of that bird’s skirt. I don’t know how they have the gall to carry on like that in front of everyone. That geezer with the brown demob suit and a pork pie hat ought to get amongst them with his sharpened stick.’
‘The game warden?’ I say. ‘He’s too busy stopping people stoning the crocuses. Anyway, what’s got into you, Sid? They used to have to send a bloke round after you with a bucket of sand to fill in the dents. You’re the last person to start casting asparagus.’
But Sid is not listening to me. He is still under the spell of spring and four pints of mild and bitter. ‘Just grab a niff of that breeze,’ he drools. ‘You’d never think that had to blow over Clapham Junction to get here, would you?’
‘To say nothing of ducking round Battersea Power Station,’ I agree with him. ‘Yes, Sid, it’s a rare treat for the hooter, even after what you’ve just done.’
Sid takes a few brisk steps towards the pond where the middle-aged wankers crash their model boats into each other, and throws his arms wide. ‘Not just the hooter,’ he says. ‘All the senses rejoice. Look at the little buds on that chestnut tree. Each one glistening under its coating of sooty smog. That’s nature in blooming riot. Will our children ever see anything like this? That’s what I ask myself.’
‘I hope not,’ I say, ripping my eyes away from the bloke who is clearly connected by more than mental ties to his lady love. ‘They don’t care, some of them, do they?’
‘All over the grass,’ says Sid in disgust. ‘I don’t know how they can bring themselves to do it. You’d think they’d just want to lie back and clock nature weaving her magic spell, wouldn’t you?’
‘Surely that’s what gets them going,’ I say. ‘I mean, look at that pigeon up there. He’s not playing leapfrog with the other one. That’s nature saying “get at it!”’
‘Pigeons are always like that,’ says Sid distastefully. ‘You remember what they did to the seat of my bike? I only left it outside Reg Perkins’ loft for a couple of minutes, too.’
‘Yes, very embarrassing,’ I say. ‘Incidentally, the loose cover has just come back from the cleaners. I think Mum was hoping you might cough up a bit towards the bill.’
‘What about my trousers?’ says Sid. ‘It’s not my fault Reg Perkins can’t house-train his bleeding pigeons. She ought to get on to him about it!’
‘Just a thought, Sid,’ I say, deciding quickly that there is little chance of making headway in that direction. ‘Certainly is a lovely day.’
‘Definitely!’ Sid takes a deep breath and winces. ‘When it’s like this you couldn’t consider living anywhere else, could you?’
‘Er – yes,’ I say. Sid’s words sound a bit strange coming from a bloke who was quite happy bumming round the Mediterranean on SS Tern until an American admiral tried to run him down with his ship – he was unhappy because he had just seen Sid boarding another vessel with his wife and a couple of camels. (See Confessions from a Luxury Liner for surprising details.)
‘Finest country in the world,’ waxes Sid. ‘Don’t ever let anyone else tell you different. We may have our problems but when the sun is shining – shit! Can’t people control their animals? Bleeding notices everywhere and nobody takes a dicky bird. The only way they’d do any good is if you put them low enough to scrape your foot on. I’d like to see some geezer’s horrible hound doing his business on the public thoroughfare. I’d follow him home and drop one in his front garden.’
‘Highly sophisticated, Sid,’ I venture. ‘I hate to think what kind of aggro that could spark off. What do you fancy doing now? We could mosey down and collect our sausage.’ (Sausage roll: dole = National Assistance).
‘Nah,’ says Sid, finishing scraping his shoe and dropping the stick into the bin reserved for icecream wrappers. ‘It’s always a bit crowded after the boozers have shut. Let’s leave it to thin out. I hate to look as if I need the money.’
‘You just take it to save hurting anyone’s feelings, don’t you, Sid?’
‘And to keep it in the country,’ says Sid. ‘I reckon it’s the least I can do. All those Micks and Pakis would have it back to Bangladesh in no time – or any other part of Ireland you care to mention. That brings back memories, doesn’t it?’
‘You mean the couple having it off under the caravan?’ I say.
‘Nah,’ says Sid. ‘Don’t you ever think about anything else? I was referring to the fair. I remember coming up here as a kid. I never had money to spend on anything but I used to watch the roundabouts whipping round and listen to the records. I thought it was great. It was better than the telly in those days.’
‘There wasn’t any telly in those days, was there?’ I say. ‘I thought you had to listen to the radio with a pair of earphones.’
‘You’ve no sense of neuralgia, have you?’ says Sid. ‘I suppose you’re too young. It’s when you start slowing up a bit that you begin to remember.’
‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘If you can hang on a minute, I’ll