Beige in Cromer

I'm in another hotel, trying to write another film script. The film is set in Barcelona, so where did I choose to go when the producer of the film offered to pay my expenses? Cromer, that's where. Not Cromer USA, or Cromer just outside Barcelona, but Cromer Norfolk. It must be something to do with turning fifty next year because, it has to be said, the visitors to Cromer are not young and hip. I was gloomily looking into a draper's shop window this morning and saw a notice, Latest Fashion, £7.99, pinned on to the hem of a hideous sludge-green polyester pleated skirt that was covered in a maple leaf print. I laughed out loud (I've only been here a day and a half but I've already attracted a few curious glances). I may not look as though I'm at the cutting edge of fashion, but I know my Vogue and I can't recall seeing a breathily written article urging us readers into polyester pleats.

I left a packet of cigarettes on a shop counter later on and as I was leaving the shop I heard the girl on the till say, ‘Whose are these?’ A woman customer said, ‘They're the woman in black's.’ After I'd thanked them both and blamed my poor memory on the menopause and generally made a fool of myself, I walked along the sea front repeating to myself the romantic phrase, The Woman in Black. On the way I passed people only ten years older than me who seemed to be wearing a type of informal uniform: a beige car coat and checked pleated skirt for the women and beige car coat and beige trousers for the men. Both sexes seemed to be wearing the same beige crêpe-soled shoes. The thing I want to know is, will it happen to me? On my sixtieth birthday will I also develop this passion for beige? And what about the permed hair that so many beige-clad older women go in for? Is it compulsory? Does a notice arrive with the pension book?

You are hereby ordered to attend Madame Yvonne's Salon at 1300 hours, where you will be given the regulation perm. Please note that the beige uniform must be worn.

If I was the Great Dictator of the World I would ban beige – it is the colour of compromise and timidity, but I have to admit fear: when we're sixty will my black-clad generation be despised by the generation below us? Will they sneer at our black leather jackets? Will black be the new beige?

There is only one tramp in Cromer. Under the dirt, he is young and handsome. Like most tramps, he is burdened down with bags of rubbish and mysterious bundles. He is quiet and wears black clothes. He has no obvious signs of mental illness. I tried to imagine what brought him to this present state. Was he a writer who came to Cromer to write a film, failed, and is fated to roam the sea front for ever more? Will I be joining him in two weeks?

When I was a child the countryside swarmed with tramps. You could hardly walk down a country lane without bumping into one and, on the whole, they were treated courteously by most people. They were given cups of tea and sandwiches at certain houses on their route, and their advice was sought on the weather and the countryside. I certainly envied them their freedom to roam about and please themselves, especially if I met one dozing by the roadside as I was dragging myself to school.

Cromer is a small place and it seems that every time I turn a corner I come face to face with the handsome tramp. A few hours ago we even shared a bench. We sat together in silence staring at the sunshine on the sea. I am determined not to get to know him. The only relationship I want in Cromer is with my film. I wish my loved one was here, though. I am occupying the honeymoon suite at the Pentonville Hotel complete with Jacuzzi, brass bed and panoramic sea views.

The sun has gone now and there's a cold wind coming off the sea. I could do with a warm beige car coat.