That time I went to a resort for pensioners

I knew something wasn’t quite right when I reached the palm-lined promenade. In front of me was a glittering blue sea but around me was a sea of grey – hundreds of grey-haired people.
Some shuffled down the sea front in slow motion on their daily constitutional; others, squeezed into fluorescent Lycra, peddled down the street (those in the less-fit category letting motorised bicycles propel them along); and in the many bars and restaurants lining the strip, sat elderly men in golf hats, drinking from oversized wine glasses, their Zimmer frames neatly parked beside them.

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