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marina magic


Hello Sunday Polaroid of Redcliffe Harbour

Dirty blonde tendrils hung limply over her shoulders. Her skin, although slick and shimmery when wet, was cracked and weeping and, where it wasn’t blistering, flaking off in tiny pieces, like scales. It was as though she’d been caught in that scraggly blue net, hoisted with haste from the water and dropped without grace onto the deck, left to dry and crisp in the heat like a forgotten pair of old rubber gloves. This is it? the journalist asked. This is the Mermaid of Redcliffe? The monger nodded. Yes, that’s it, he replied. That’s her. Real beauty, hey? He chuckled and turned to the water, leaned out over the yacht’s side. The mermaid’s eyes were closed and her chest was rising up and down, however slowly, her lips parting slightly as though she were about to wake. Still, the journalist stooped closer and placed the back of his hand across her forehead. Should we get to her to the hospital? he asked. She seems, um, parched. The monger continued to look toward the sea. No, she’s fine, he said. Just give her a quick kiss. She’ll come good. The journalist hesitated, then bent forward, placed his lips tentatively on hers and let them smack together. Her chest continued to  rise and fall slowly. Nothing happened, he said. The monger turned and  laughed deeply. What? You’re a journalist and you believe in fairytales?

Find out more about this Hello Sunday excursion

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