Another post entitled "Arse".
I am a twat.
We had a fabulous day yesterday. A little bit of shopping in town, then a stroll through the park with an ice cream before heading home and bimbling off to the pub. It was a hot, sunny day and the prospect of beer and the papers was an enticing one.
So enticing, in fact, that I completely failed to put any sunscreen on. I can't help it. I'm still not really up to speed with the concept that the British sun, redolent with years of damp and the echo of fish-paste sandwiches on windswept beaches, has anything like the bollocks to offer more than a faint sizzle. I mean, I grew up in the seventies - and nobody wore sun cream then, etc, etc. The "mole" I had removed from the sole of my foot a couple of years ago (which would have been promoted to the slightly more important-sounding "melanoma" if I hadn't spotted it and legged it off to the doctors) is an abberation - I just can't seem to assimilate applying cream before heading to a beer garden. It feels....poncy - like wearing a cocktail dress to the pub, or laughing at Ben Elton's jokes about politics.
Anyway. Three hours later and we decided to head home. It was a little bit warm, granted, but I thought we'd got away with it. You can guess where we were up to by about nine o'clock last night, can't you?
To sum up: I am redder than Mick Hucknall's ball bag. There is a bottle of aloe vera body lotion in the fridge and every hour or so I wincingly soothe my parched skin. I feel like a sausage on a barbecue, or Vanessa Feltz in a size sixteen dress - even my clothes hurt.
I am a twat.