It’s been at least two months since I’ve been to the beach, a long overdue trip. So I was pleased to go there this weekend. (While there, I finished reading a big fat historical novel, but I can’t blog about it because I’m reviewing it for the Historical Novel Society.)
Part of the fun of going to the beach is reading the signs in the small towns we pass through to get there. For some time, one of my favorites has been this hand-lettered one: “Boil Peanuts. Circle Drive.” Unfortunately, we can never follow this command, since we don’t carry the implements necessary to boil peanuts, which it seems is a prerequisite to circling the drive, wherever that might be.
As our trip to the beach takes us through a military town, strip clubs are in abundance, and my very favorite sign used to be that of a club that offered wrestling in various types of substances, changing weekly. Sometimes the substances even had a seasonal theme: during Thanksgiving, for example, cranberry sauce was the ingredient of choice. About a year ago, however, the signs stopped advertising wrestling, presumably either because the club proprietors ran out of ideas for new substances or because the city officials decided that the public health was at stake. After that, the sign settled down to the dull and seldom changing “Girls, Girls, Girls!”
This weekend was no different, except that in addition to advertising girls, girls, and girls, the club added “Good Times Everyday” to its sign. Had I possessed a stepladder, and were I not afraid of being mistaken for one of the “Girls, Girls, Girls,” I could have moved the magnetic letters over just a fraction, enough to transform “Good Times Everyday” into “Good Times Every Day.” That task being completed, I could have driven to the beach with a lighter heart. Alas, I could not, and had to console myself with writing this blog entry upon my return in the feeble hope that the club owners see it and mend their ways.
So, this post is void of historical fiction content, you’re thinking? No, indeed! Why, here’s Onslow the cat playing amongst the historical fiction. You’ll note that he’s next to a group of Sharon Penman and Jean Plaidy novels and is investigating Paul Murray Kendall’s biography of Richard III. But whether Onslow likes his roses red or white is a mystery to me, and most likely will remain that way.