Eurotrash and all that...

The South of France... its a beautiful thing. I really must do it more often. My head finally hit the London pillow at 2:30 this morning after attempting the last delayed flight out of Nice on Easy Jet, or sleezyjet as its known. Thank you Monaco for a great weekend... all that anyone should ever need in small doses. Sun, fun, and fabulous people watching.

The Beach Club must be the best spot for fab, ever so slightly voyeuristic observation of one’s fellow man, woman and everything in-between. Having grown up in Africa, the concept of stiletto’s and bikini around the pool is a little hard to relate to...

One can almost guess where people come from by what they wear, how they wear it, the body language, how they hold their knife and fork... The eurotrash in Vilebrequin; the French with perfectly groomed hair, large brims in kitten heels; the eastern Euro’s in impossible heels and gold bikini’s - older or less travelled versions in too tight off-white lycra shorts; the English... either eurotrash or rather pale and slightly uncomfortable; the southern Euro’s in their headscarves, loads of children, tanned and comfortable; the South Americans even more so sans children and headgear, avec grand booty; the American contingent purposefully pale, gripping their cutlery, baseball caps firmly planted. And the most intriguing variety, the world travellers in their kaftans from St Trop/St Barths, the jewels a mix of Cartier and something picked up in Sardinia/Brazil, the flip-flops Italian, the hat hippy, the sunscreen La Mer or Sisley, beach bag picked up in the Billionaires Club... blackberry in hand.

Horribly broad generalisations I know. Ohmy, what the hell... hours of rather compulsive entertainment.