Roger Collis

It was a cultural revolution of sorts. As Mao Tse-Tung might have said: ‘Let a million bosoms bloom.’

It started almost as a local event. Legend has it that the first bikini tops came off at Tahiti Plage, near St. Tropez. The year? Most plagistes would settle for 1970, give or take a season or two either way.

Take in the scene.

An unremarkable summer day with a faint breeze coming in off the sea, rustling the palm trees, setting the beach boys to work tightening the parasols, and wafting the first pungent smells of the plat du jour – mmmm, l’epaule d’agneau aux herbes – across the patio to the serried rows of baking bodies. Monsieur Felix is starting on his rounds with a sheaf of menus. Fingers are snapping to order aperitifs. The beach is coming to life after a gloriously somnolent morning.

But what’s this? That agreeable strawberry blonde in the white bathing suit is sitting up at the windbreak. Without her bikini top? According to Tony, she’s a Swedish-speaking Finn, although what that has to do with it I’m not sure. Of course, we’d all noticed her undoing her top when she turned over on her front an hour or so ago. And, of course, several of the girls do that. Still. And look, there’s another a few yards away. And another. Why, it’s our very own Martine! And Jean-Pierre doesn’t seem in the least concerned, quite smug in fact. As well he might; what a figure! And there’s another. This is incredible. Click here

I once dreamed of being a big tycoon. With sharp shark-skin suit and a fat Mercedes to take me everywhere. The diamond in my tie would flash as I made awesome decisions. And I thought how great to have a country place for unwinding at weekends. Maybe along that part of the river they call the Gold coast. With bedrooms softly quilted and a private harbor for powerboats bringing friends. On summer nights we’d sit gratefully outside and summon drinks with a little bell across the fragrant lawns.
Click here

A pale wet morning in the Windy City. A sibilant river of automobiles congealing in Chicago’s down-town anastomosis. And scurrying Sunday people with grave ecumenical smiles. I feel nimble and smooth in blue stepping into the buttery of the Oxford House under a shawl of breakfast smells draped so deliciously over the sidewalk.
Click here