According to most reference books relating to ‘common ravens’ we typically vocalize with a croaking sound, but not this week. Croaking would be a veritable pleasure if only it could come out that way when I attempt to speak - sadly, my voice is more rattle and cluck than the dulcet tones you may be used to. I admit to shouting a lot when Bradley won The Tour on Sunday afternoon but not enough to require several trips to the apothecary. The assistant’s initial enquiry felt like the Spanish Inquisition had been engaged:
“Have you got a chesty cough?”
“No idea.” I squeaked.
"How long have you had it?"
"Since yesterday?" I hate to admit that I'd left it to fester a bit longer than usual.
"Temperature?"
"Yes thanks." It says 90 degrees on my garden thermometer.
"Allergies? Blood pressure?"
"No but I will have if I don’t get some syrup down my throat …NOW!"
Finally, after several grumpy nights and sounding rough as a robber's dog, I accepted the offer of antibiotics from my doctor and an enforced rest in the garden – in the shade if you must know. Strolling around the Shires, you don’t see many suntanned Goths and having long embraced paleness, I believe the whole “getting a tan” scenario is far too time consuming and messy to engage my interest for long. Last time I visited the sun-drenched paradise of Fuerteventura we were advised by cabin crew to “slip, slap, slop” before landing. What they should say is “Use minimum Factor 30 or book yourself into the local hospital with third degree burns.” It’s the strong winds you know …
Later that afternoon, I had an opportunity to visit the pharmacy in Caleta de Fuste - a strange place to witness customer service, Spanish style. The young assistant greeted me grudgingly, like one of the girls in the brilliant BT broadband ad, saying
“Hola!” Accompanied by a perfect one-shoulder shrug.
“I’ve got sunburn.”
“Si.” Another one-shoulder shrug.
“It’s really bad.” She really didn’t give a toss and who could blame her, I was the fiftieth British customer that day.
“Si. Ju hab crema?" She tapped a bottle of well-known sun protection. “Treinta?”
“Not thirty, no … only fifteen.” I should have said nothing because the withering stare she gave me could have curdled cream and sent it mouldy. In utter contempt, she reached up to the shelf [without looking] and dropped a box on the counter.
“Fifteen Euros.” That was when one Euro equalled one Pound in real money.
“Don’t you have anything a bit … “ She’d obviously heard it all and bit my head off.
“Ju hab burning, jes?” I nodded. “So …fifteen Euros.”
I actually spent double and bought the strongest SPF I could find before vowing never to go out in the sun again. Well, until the next time it came out in the UK anyway.
While it’s on my mind, this may be a good time to share some fake-tanning tips. I’m off to a birthday party on Saturday and have realised my lovely dress will benefit from my flesh not resembling un-cooked pastry. Try this and you will be a lovely golden colour all over, not orange and streaky:
·
Ignore
the magazines when they trumpet ‘exfoliate, exfoliate, exfoliate’ - unless you want to spend fifteen quid on a body scrub which smells
like a vat of lemons? This is time-wasting and aimed at ladies with hides
like a baby elephant and in normal cases, a
shower with a loofah of choice will do it.
·
If
there’s a bit you want un-tanned, smear Vaseline on it.
·
Have
a damp flannel on standby and some dry kitchen towel.
·
Measure
your cream from the base of your palm to the tip of your middle finger –
depending on your body size it should be enough for a lower leg. Use the same amount on the other side. Use the same measuring trick for arms,
décolletage and other bits.
·
In
between applications, any cream left on your hands should be smeared on your
buttocks. This won’t send them brown –
it just means there’s no goopy bits left between your fingers.
·
Wipe
your hands on the flannel and dry the palms.
·
Nearly
there …now wipe a dry hand gently over all the cream you’ve applied, blurring
the edges around your feet, elbows and knees.
Under your arms and around your neck, feel out the patches of excess
cream and smooth them in until you’re dry all over.
·
Wipe
your hands on the flannel again, and wash away any excess from the palms of
your hands. All done, and no need to
spend another fifteen quid on ‘fake tan remover.’
Raven
