And pink-purple denim shorts. And slip-on checked pumps. What am I? she wondered. A children’s TV presenter?
Sun-block. Hibiscus tinted lip balm. No other make-up as such.
As she pulled on her T-shirt, she noticed a couple of marks on her arm. Scar-lines.
She wondered, momentarily, if they had been self-inflicted.
There was also a tattoo just below her shoulder. A Phoenix and flames.
It was a terrible tattoo. In this life, she clearly had no taste.
But since when did taste have anything to do with happiness?
She dressed and pulled out a phone from her shorts pocket.
This was an older model than in her married-and-living-in-a-pub life.
Luckily, a thumb-reading was enough to unlock it. She left the changing rooms and walked along a beachside path.
It was a warm day. Maybe life was automatically better when the sun shone so confidently in April.
Everything seemed more vivid, more colourful and alive than it had done in England.
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