Scorchio

You would think that a grown man of 'Life begins...' age would learn, huh? But no – I seem incapable of even the most basic care and attention that the rest of you lot seem to manage without thinking about it

I got sunburnt last Saturday. A beaute, too. Glowing red lobster, tender, succulent, done to a crisp, medium to well done, flamin great roasted to a tee Sunburn. Sat out in my back garden, book in hand, fresh lemonade on hand, soaking in the rays in the suntrap. Did I get any suncream on me? What – with the TV adverts streaming a constant '3 for 2 offer, we wouldn't let our children step into the cancerous sunshine' message?

No, I didn't. I was Ray Winstone in Sexy Beast twice over. I was colour me sulfur. I had a healthy sellafield complexion. People stopped in the street and whispered 'ouch'. And So - I endured the comments and remarks about 'catching the sun' (and being half baldy I have more to catch . . .) and braced myself for the next days tender soreness.

And yes – it was sore. That heat radiating, sleep with a wet towel over me, sore. But hey, bit of pain and all that, soak it up and get on. Am I right?

Well – I was totally unprepared for the next few nights, wasn't I. No amount of anti-histamine lotion and cool baths were gonna save me from the next series of agonies. It's the fifth or fourth circle of hell. It's the night attacks of needle sharp invisible hornets. So random, and irregularly every 20 to 30 seconds or so. Absolutely impossible to sleep thru – so I resorted to watching late night TV and drinking Absinthe and blackcurrent until I was numb enough that I couldn't feel the spikey itchey painey and could collapse into a fitful, drink sodden sleep.

Will I learn? Will I buggery. Already the peeling has taken on leprous proportions as I leave great wads of skin wherever I sit, stand or pee. And already I'm planning to meet the boys and girls out tonight, down Bushy's tent for a few ciders, looking forward to the weekend and getting out to 'top up' the red bits.

Scorchio!