She’s No Sun of Mine

The sun and I are no longer friends. We’re not even on speaking terms. In fact, if we both walked into a party hosted by a mutual acquaintance, we wouldn’t even throw a friendly nod, or disparaging glance at each other. That’s how bad it’s got. We’re like a couple who have moved from loud and aggressive arguing to bitter silence. Not even Jeremy Kyle could save us now and he’s got a degree in marriage counselling from…well, he’s got an NVQ in… OK, so maybe he has no official documentation or certificates to prove his worth as a relationship therapist, but by gum, he can sort out problems – albeit, problems with ludicrously titled scenarios. Nevertheless there is nothing Jeremy or his exquisite people skills could do to bring the sun and me back onto speaking terms.

As you may remember; last week my column documented my desire to be out enjoying the sun, instead of stuck inside writing. Well, as soon as I had hit the final ‘.’, I was out there – in the beer garden, relaxing. I didn’t even spell-check it – that’s how determined I was to enjoy the glorious weather. However, now I’m filled with nothing but regret. The reason for this is that the sun, in all her infinite glory, decided to burn the top of my forehead. Again. What does she think she’s playing at? I mean, does she get some sort of perverse pleasure in turning people pink and blister-y? The sickko.

Before I get any complaints from the ‘sun police’ (I’m pretty sure they’re not an actual thing) telling me I should have worn more sun cream, or a sun cream of a higher factor, I did. The only thing stronger than the factor of sun cream I was using would be a balaclava, and that would have looked stupid alongside the Hawaiian shorts. Besides, I’ve stopped wearing balaclavas since I was tasered in Nat West. It’s a long story but suffice to say; they don’t like it when you go into a bank with your face covered up. I would have taken it off the first time the security guard asked me to, but I couldn’t hear him because…well, because I was wearing a balaclava. Do you see? That’s what it will come to if we continue to let the sun get away with this blistering rampage – do you want to be momentarily paralysed when you pop into town for statement print-out? I think not.

What I am proposing is this: we get rid of the sun. Who’s with me? We construct a huge sheet -approx 10,000,000×10,000,000 km – and throw it over the top of the sun, blocking it out (I used a similar method with my Nan’s budgie). I’m not sure how easy that will be to do, but if they can put a man on the moon then they can put a sheet on the sun. That way, we’re never affected by her harmful rays again. The only other alternative is to just ignore it until it goes away (I used a similar method with my Nan). Now, I can imagine some of you will be up in arms about this, already writing letters to your MP’s and whatnot, but why? Because you like the sun? Ha! Don’t make me laugh and then write a phonetic expression of said laughter on the page. Why do you like the sun? She doesn’t like you, if she did why is she intent of burning you so much? And also if she likes us so much then surely she would grace us with her presence more than once a year. She’s like a big, hot melt-y Santa. I don’t trust her – she swans in when she pleases and saunters round expecting everyone to fawn all over her. Well not me! I refuse to give in to her seductive ways. Most pubs have patio heaters now, so you can recreate the experience quite easily anyway. We don’t need her.

If you agree with me and my proposed plan then I shall be holding a rally about it during the next bout of good weather. You can’t miss me – I’ll be the one wearing the balaclava, holding the big quilt.

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