Here’s the story of French kissing, painting and missing epidermis.
The unmistakable scream of a tanned man reverberated around the bedroom like the sparks that danced around my microwave when I once accidentally put some foil in it. Beautiful yet alluringly horrifying. It was the shock more than anything else. Although, on both occasions, the potatoes were fine.
Being English and having spent most of my days here in the northeast, you get used to the weather. You get used to being a pasty, white, frail, delicate little flowermuffin. Who happens to make the greatest cuppa tea on Earth. Possibly even in the solar system. Oh yes, I said that. I’ll challenge the Martians any day of the week.
The thing is, it’s rarely sunny. So when it is, we all rush out and enjoy the sun, which clogs up the roads with caravans and old people driving slowly because they are eating their favourite summer caramel snack, Werther’s Original. Which usually causes denture loss, desperate scrambling under the seat to find said dentures, slow and erratic driving, shouting, and then furious make-up French kissing since their old and that’s about the best they can manage on a sweaty summer’s day. Sorry to put that image in your head, but that will be you one day. Not me, though. I’m fairly confident I would’ve fallen down a well before I’m 30, never to be seen again.
I was outside this week. In very hot weather. Well, hot to us. Not to Australians. They’d wear a jumper in this weather. Possibly a lovely knitted cardigan. With a picture on it of a kangaroo fighting a cuddle of koalas. No, they don’t have a group name since they’re solitary creatures. So I had to make one up. It was either cuddle or the terrible pun, koalition. I’ve seen a koala. Not of any relevance, I just thought I’d mention it.
Since I’m pasty and not used to sun, I was quite badly tanned. I wasn’t expecting tannage, so you can understand my screams as I awoke as red as a cartoon lobster, cartoon because lobster’s aren’t red except in cartoons. And in my dreams. Not that there was reason to inform you of my lobster dreaming. Probably means something. The word crazy is probably involved, though. Especially when you consider the dream was about my own lobster farm. Anywho…
I was outside this week in the garden, helping pa do garden stuff. You can probably tell by my lingo that I’m not particularly good with gardening terminology. But it’s fun the be in the great outdoors, I could encourage it more. Do be careful, though. Earlier this week, father was in his lounger with his headphones in listening to some noise from the ‘50s, from whence he came. The phone rang and he dashed to answer it. He tried to throw off his MP3 player but in the rush, it became entangled around his neck. Choking, he ran inside, stumbling over the raised doorframe. He was on the home straight. The phone dead ahead. He charged for it. And tripped over the vacuum cleaner. I guess the message is, if you’re outside, plan for it. Because I sure didn’t.
Much of my garden work was painting. Which is tedious. And tiresome. And painful because I underestimated the Sun. You’d have thought after 23 years of existence, I would’ve learned not to do that. And of course, I’m sure you’re expecting me to say the responsible thing I should say. Always use sunscreen. Good idea. Always do that. I didn’t and I look like the inside of a watermelon. Except not delicious. Sniff, sniff *appeals for sympathy*.
My biggest job was painting the shed. We finally got round to doing that. I say we. Dad left me to it. The front of the shed is largely covered by a bamboo tree. Which I, by myself, had to hold back whilst I painted said shed. They’re very sharp, are bamboo trees. And pointy. Yeah, you can see where this is going. The sight of me being hacked to pieces by a tree I was trying (and failing) to hold back, whilst painting and being burned alive is one too painful to recollect for you in any great detail. Needless to say, I’m scratched, cut and bruised to hell. It was worse on the day because my blood was indistinguishable from my red skin and buckets of sweat. And I haven’t even mentioned the constant sneezing caused by my hayfever. Or my later attempts to pour some concrete that almost left me welded to the patio, which would’ve made my problems much, much, worse. And don’t even get me started on having to lay flat on the shed roof to paint its eaves, or the burning smell that I later realized was my skin starting to fuse with the bitumen roof. A fact I discovered later in the shower when I noticed some of my epidermis had gone AWOL.
It’s been a beautiful week. The garden is looking lovely. The shed roof with its splashes of pink, which is bits of me, is looking grand. The new flowerbeds are in. The new concrete is looking like a two-year-old threw some concrete at the patio, which to be fair, is certainly the case. And I might be sore and itchy and hot and bothered and sniffing like a vacuum cleaner on its side. I might be as scratched as that time I was mobbed and beaten by that hamster. But at least it’s sunny. For now. I mean, it’s England, so it’ll probably rain nonstop next week. But here we try to make the best out of whatever weather it is.
I, for example, will spend those rainy days this week with my arms hanging out of my open windows. BECAUSE MY ARMS ARE ON FIRE!
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “I want my words to illuminate like the Sun, as I give my daily lecture on photosynthesis to my houseplants”.
Peace Out :|:
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To Contrive & Jive
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