Bohemia Village Voice

Day at the Seaside

I had just arrived in Hastings. The only open eatery I could find was a gaudy, modern restaurant with lighting that could blind a man. No doubt, some sort of homing beacon for the proletariat. I took a deep breath and entered.

As it was breakfast time, I ordered a pair of kippers, devilled kidneys and a pot of Darjeeling from the pimple ridden youth at the counter.

“Wot?” It spoke.

I repeated my order slowly enough for, surely, even the French to understand, but…

“We only sell Mc…”

“Mc?!” I interrupted! “Mc? …This, young man, is England! And an Englishman doesn’t eat Scottish food, not even if a chum were to dare him!”

My nerves were shot by this attack. I needed to steady my self. I reached for my trusty Briar, but soon realised that it would not be enough. The Meerschaum was soon filled and placed between my trembling lips, but as I went to reach for a match…

“No Smokin’ in ‘ere mate.”

Aghast, I turned a fled, thrashing my cane at anyone who dared get in my way. I took the first train back to London. To recover from my day at the seaside, I took a room at the Dorchester. I have not been able to leave.

The only explanation

My urge to know why was becoming unbearable. I decided to take the risk of offending and asked the well dressed gentleman with the hair lip and furrowed brow as he nursed his stout.

“Excuse me. I don’t suppose you could tell me why the people in Hastings look, well…just that little bit weirder than other people?”

“Well sonny,” he began, “You’ve asked the right person. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of them, but I have been watching them for years.”

“Oh I wasn’t suggesting that you are…er…what do you mean ‘them’?”

“Twitchers of course. Human spotters. Aliens my dear boy.”

“Aliens?”

“Oh yes, this is the best site for them outside the US. They come from all over the Galaxy; there are Kaglenians, Dritakanoids, Heblozobes…all sorts. Have you noticed that Hastings is full of people who’s skin just doesn’t fit properly? …Alien Twitchers, the lot of them.”

“A small part of me is thinking that you can’t be serious…but I have to say, it all makes sense now…the woman at the laundrette, the butch..”

“The BUTCHER! Ha! That’s him my boy, he’s the one who makes the suits for them all.”

From that moment, the urge started to subside as the pieces fell into place. Years later, I have made it my life’s work to watch the watchers. The top of the voyeur chain. So, next time you are in town, take a look at the man with the wonky shoulder and club foot, he’s probably taking one at you.