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Page 1 of 1Total of 1 messages
Posted by:Jan 16th 2012, 03:51:16 pm
Fig Tree News TeamThe club's owner Humphrey Percentie, who is known on the island (inexplicably) as either 'Hitler', 'Shabby', 'Poison snake', 'Crooked dog 'or 'Peace of the world', is good-naturedly manning the bar. 'That's naughty,' he says as a girl passes wearing a pair of trousers with virtually no back to them. It's unusual, too. This isn't Miami. Harbour Island is a modest, mannerly place: you're unlikely to see anyone topless. Strangers nod and wave. Shops shut on Sundays. There's little crime, zero aggro. At a rather PG Wodehousian cocktail party, where everyone smells of shampoo and Piz Buin, I hear people described as 'good campers and bad campers'. I even spy Deacon Samuel Mitchell from the Catholic church ironing those copies of The Complete Celebration Hymnal that have become rather too shabby with brine.

At midnight we all move on to Gusty's club with a deck where you can see the moon massive on the water and the far off lights of Spanish Wells. Then to Valentine's dock to watch the Briland Heritage band, with guest singers Melody and Mikell, who unabashedly text their boyfriends mid-song ('whre the freak r u?'), then grab the microphone with the sudden voluptuous longing of the young and click their carmine-nailed fingers. At 4am, bed. The island is completely black and completely silent. Eventually, dawn comes. But very late, like someone tipped out of a hammock only to be left snooze further on the floor. In a seafront cottage at Pink Sands the youngest redhead picks at his breakfast of Tootsie Roll and cantaloupe, reaches for his sunblock, and the day begins.

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