STROLLING AROUND ST TROPEZ

Ma and Chump on  the tartan rug

M O N D A Y,  3 1  J U L Y

Didn’t sleep very well as so hot. The drinks' waiter fetched breakfast from our terrace. I noticed on his right (rather tanned) hand he has a heavy silver link bracelet and a big square gold ring.

Éric kept on looking at me by the pool, which drove us up the wall. So Chump and me chatted to the seedy looking little red-haired French boy, Frédéric.

We sat up at the bar before lunch. Jean looked quite a lot but I refused to look at him. The drinks waiter didn’t serve us at lunch which was rather weedy.

“Changed into Scallywags dress and at six we left for St Trop.”

It’s a gruesome place I suppose, but it is fun. After all, it’s only meant to be a tourist place for all the with-it young French – and that’s exactly what it is. Most of the girls have the ugliest faces, but good figures - we saw two wearing silken skirt things that fell from their hips to the ground! The boys there are fantastic, but they don’t look nice types. Tons of them had Bermuda shorts, often with fraying ends. 

Looked at the boats too, and sat down at exactly the same café as we did last year. I had a choc ice and an Orangina. Just felt so weedy walking around with the parents.

Back at Roches Fleuries at 8.30. Dinner was absolutely super: steak grilled over charcoal. Didn’t face the bar so didn’t see much of Jean or Roger Daltry. But the drinks waiter gave me one fab long look.

Room 75