Never Been Sunkissed

Here’s my column for this week: Blah, blah, blah, something that winds me up, blah, blah, blah, I’m useless at this, blah, blah, blah the end. Will that do?

It’s not that I don’t want to write a column, but I don’t see why I have to stay indoors and work while other people get to be out in the sun. It’s not fair. Why can’t I be out in the sun? Why isn’t there such a thing as a stand-by column writer? They could operate in the same way as substitute-teachers – come in when I’m off and try keeping control of you rowdy lot. They don’t have to be good, they just need to keep you occupied long enough for me to go outside and have a choc ice. I could just go to a cafe and make use of the free WiFi, but I think I’ve made my feelings on frequenting establishments alone, very clear. Besides, it’s no different to being at home, except you have to pay someone to make your drinks for you and you’re surrounded by people noisily chomping on their toasted teacakes.

I just want to go out for a few minutes, have a quick walk round and get a bit of air. If dog’s can get away with it, then why can’t I? I promise I won’t relieve myself in the park unless they have proper facilities. I’m going stir crazy being locked up in here. Just to clarify I’m not actually ‘locked in’, but I’ve left my column to the last minute so I have no choice but to stay in until I’m finished. My math’s teacher used to use the same method; making me stay behind after school until I’d finished my work. The joke was on her, though because I’m numerically dyslexic so it wasn’t just my evening I was spoiling.

I’m not usually the biggest fan of warm weather; it depends on my mood. At night time I’d be much happier with a slight chill. There’s nothing worse than trying to sleep on one of those hot summer nights. Your face sticking to the pillow, your hair sticking to your face, your pyjamas sticking to every bit of you, you end up drenched in sweat, looking like you went to bed in a wet suit. Not nice at all. Eventually, you have to get the electric fans down from the loft at 3 o’clock in the morning. Twice now, my neighbours have called the police thinking I’m a burglar. It’s not easy to convince the boys in blue you weren’t up to anything suspicious when you’re stood there in a silk kimono and Mr Grumpy slippers brandishing a pedestal fan.

I don’t know why I’m so keen to go out in the sun; after all we’re not the best of friends. We fell out a few years ago, while I was on holiday in Halkidiki. Myself and my saint of a girlfriend were enjoying a week’s holiday and, as is customary, we bathed in the sun (sunbathing, to you). It took a couple of hours for us to realise what had happened – I burnt my forehead. Badly. It was bright red and peeling within hours – it looked like someone had grated a baboon’s arse. This was the second day into the holiday and from then on my girlfriend made sure I spent the rest of the vacation wearing a baseball cap and a t-shirt at all times. There’s nothing fun about being the only person unable to enjoy the sun in case it flares up the blisters on your scalp. Picture if you will the scene of my girlfriend and I playing in the beautifully tranquil sea, me fully dressed like the Invisible Man enjoying a package holiday. I scarred so badly I started telling people it was a birth defect. Since then I have been extra cautious about being in the sun. I blame the Greeks; if they had spent more time looking after their tourists they wouldn’t be in the financial mess they are now.

Maybe staying-indoors isn’t all bad – I’ve just solved Greece’s economy. Beat that you sun-loving lot, stick that in your choc ice and lick it!


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