Sunbathing a futile exercise

Press, 23 November 1988, Page 16

Sunbathing a futile exercise

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Summer is not designed for people like me, who need liberal coatings of Factor 15 sunblock before they switch on any light over 75 watts. People like me haunt chemist shops in October to buy huge quantities of fake tan to see them through to February. People like me get their money back at suntan clinics because the owners do not want you hanging around in all your luminous glory giving the place a bad name. While I can spend the winter on equal terms with my peers, come summer I can be seen conscientiously weeding out anyone who even threatens to possess a single tanning, cell. It has taken many years for me to come to terms with the fact that sunbathing is, for me, a futile, exercise. The idea has finally sunk in that a slight flush to my skin is not worth spending the next few days prostrate with pain. This has upset my brother terribly, depriving him of the time-honoured tradition of peeling layers of skin from my back. Coming from a family which tans on cue, summers are my special humiliation.

I remember clearly a summer spent on a Nelson beach when I was

very, very young. My siblings were busily tearing up and down the water’s edge browning nicely while I was made to wear a tiny pirate’s hat made out of that morning’s newsaper to keep sunburn at bay. My real claim to fame, though, has to be getting sunstroke in North Wales. It was, the locals assured me, a first. What made the whole incident so memorable was that it had a distinctly “Fawlty Towers” flavour to it. On entering the dining area that evening, I collapsed elegantly at the feet of the maitre d’. My companion tried to pretend he was with anyone but this small red heap at his feet before relenting and carrying me up two flights of stairs to our room. This accomplished, he then attempted to summon a doctor. Asking a Welsh-speak-

ing telephonist to find the number of a local doctor is a lot of fun. This was followed by asking the Welsh-speaking doctor’s nurse to send the Welsh-speaking doctor to a Welsh-named hotel in an obscure Welsh village which he could not pronounce, let alone locate. When the doctor finally arrived, he spent three minutes tut-tutting over my third-degree burns,

applied a magic potion which immediately got rid of any pain and left a bill which would have been more at home in Harley Street than a little Welsh village.

Unfortunately, I have handed on my sunless legacy to my son. He too will spend summers under hats, umbrellas and sunblock while his sister enjoys a year-round tan. Knowing his skin was unlikely to take more

than three minutes of sun at any one sitting, I carefully covered him from head to toe for a trip to country. There he lay, all eight months of him, covered in layers of muslin with sunblock on every conceivable part of his body. Sadly, I must have left one square centimetre of cheek exposed, which he promptly burnt in a matter of seconds.

But slowly the tide is turning. A growing awareness of the dangers of sunbathing may see pale petal-like complexions return as a fashion accessory. No longer will it be chic to sport skin the colour and texture of a western saddle for three months of the year. Instead, people like me, formerly only seen in summer during the hours of darkness, can finally come out of the closet.