Sun bathing for me is akin to a week at the coal face. Bloody hard work, an exercise in logistics and, at times, life threatening.
Now sunbeds are a completely different matter. 10 minutes a day for two weeks and you achieve a perfectly even tan at the fraction of the cost of 2 weeks on any costa. OK so maybe a few cancerous cells have been awakened but the temporary result is a perfectly even, all over, golden tan. The sun bed wraps itself around you and lightly toasts every nook and cranny.
For me, sun bathing holds as much promise as a New England ladies’ course in patchwork quilting.
You pack everything you need for a day on the beach. Beach mat, suntan lotion, sand gritty bottle of water, sand encrusted kindle that you know will never work after the first week of beach exposure, and the ubiquitous sarong.
Sherpa laden you find your patch on the beach only to realise you’ve left your beach towel back in the room.
Half an hour later you return to find your perfect patch has been commandeered by two perfectly formed and already Caribbean brown, young things. You move to the patch next door, the one where the tree overhangs the beach ensuring only half the suns rays will ever get through and finally you settle, covering the eu de mosquito repellent with a thick layer of factor 30 and pointing yourself in the direction of the sun’s rays. All day you will be repointing yourself in the direction of the suns rays as they do not have the good manners of a sun bed and continually shift.
By the end of day one, you have traffic light knees to show your my efforts. A vast expanse of white, and throbbing ‘I did warn you to stop’, bright red legs.
Day two is worse. Pink buttocks, pink thighs, pink fleshy bits where the arm meets the chest (supposed to be an erogenous zone but currently so sore – a no go zone), pink breasts, but only bits of them; the white triangles appearing above the neckline of the spaghetti strap top you decide to wear for dinner ensuring that everyone knows you are not a professional tanner.
At this point, ‘To topless or not to topless’ should be discussed. On sunbeds and in the med – absolutely. In countries where it is considered offensive to their culture – absolutely not. I really do hate it when european women think it is fair play to flash their nipples in countries where it deeply offends, and I hope that their green curry is spiked.
By day three the turkey neck road map that makes Birmingham’s intersection look like a two lane freeway appears, you have white creases on your inner elbows where you have been holding the book, your face has that ‘I’ve been on holiday- look at my sun glasses eyes’, look,and you closely resemble a zebra, as your sides have yet to see the sun.
Day four and you think it’s looking good.
Think again.
Those who are skilled in the art of sunbathing know that one of the secrets of an even tan is to put your hair up.
You however think it’s far sexier to let your now sea water clogged, matted straw hang softly (crustily) around your pink shoulders. Result – a stretch of white from the hair line to the top of your shoulder blades.
Day 5. You put your hair up. You fall asleep in the sun.
4 days of near death, living in a darkened room with sunstroke later you emerge; white enough to scare a ghost, with only red mosquito welts to show for your efforts and begin the whole tortuous exercise again.
And you wonder why I prefer sunbeds.
What about the scenery though? The beautiful plants, the sea? I hear you say.
What do you think Google Earth is for?!