You know you had a good holiday when you take off your cardi and peeling skin puffs into the air like a snowy cloud, wafting gently to the ground. Yessir, I spent some time in the hot Namibian sun last week, diving into a hippo and croc infested pool.
Of course, when I saw ‘dive’ I mean ‘ease gently’ and when I say ‘hippo and croc infested pool’ I mean ‘an area of the Okovango carefully fenced off from anything dangerous’.
I, naturally with my pasty limbs, have both a deep fear of the sun and also an unholy and wanton lust for it’s glorious rays. (I wanna be brown, bitches.) Unfortunately for me, a day swimming in the safely fenced off piece of the Okovango took me from the pale pink of an uncooked shrimp to a deep Le Creuset red, and not the caramel brown of a toffee Steri Stumpie I was hoping for.
You see, the thing behind turning a deep brown is my secret belief that like wearing black, a tan is slimming. And sitting around in my clever swimming costume (I swear that thing has an IQ of 120; it sure knows how to make me look good) with my pudgy, impervious-to-the-sun thighs, all I could imagine was a Future Me that was gloriously brown, with perfect hair and sunglasses that made me look famous.
But instead of turning into a delicious and sexy toffee I was yet again a tomato. And at work, a peeling tomato. In other words, I was in no position to commit a murder, shedding DNA in a white puff every time I turned around (it was kind of gross). I think also catching some rays made me look exhausted because people started to say to me, ‘You look like I feel!’ Somehow, people never say that when they’re feeling amazing.
One thing I can be glad about: I’m not as jolly looking as Lunch Box Lewis. Do wish I could make music like him though…