The Little Mermaid . . .

Here is a old tale with a new twist and it's not Disney.

My oldest friend has recently come to shore and is now happily living with me in the glorious sea-side town of Brighton. We have been friends for 22 years but I am discovering things about her now that I never knew. One of them is her midnight transformation. I'm not talking about the spine-cracking, fur growing, spiky toothed, howling kind of transformation, oh no, this is better.

I am referring to what happens when my dearest friend looks up from her drink and gets a strange twinkle in her eye, suddenly leaps from her chair, canters out of the pub and disappears across the shingle yelling about "Midnight Sea Swimming".

Now this isn't so unusual, in fact, it's almost a phenomenon around these parts. I have known many succumb to the waves after a few. In fact I have shared beds with still salty people in all their clothes. I have distracted taxi drivers with precarious kebabs whilst a gang of dripping drunks have piled into their cabs. But not one of these events has been executed with the style that this siren so seamlessly possesses.

What makes the Midnight Transformation so special is her ability to recruit. On the stormy nights that she has thus far stripped off and plunged into the waves it hasn't been alone - but more amazingly it also hasn't been with any of the original party. No, this girl, whilst streaming down the beach shedding dress, shoes and bra, collects randoms from the shore and ensconces them into her salty frolics.

So whilst I am becoming used to waking up and staggering into the bathroom with a hangover only to hop and swear on the shingle strewn across the floor, I am also the only girl in Brighton who gets to make tea for the morning-after mermaid.