Hello! This is the scond part of my muse on Sunburn and its effects upon us Gingers. Part one can be found above labelled, Part 1!
To paraphrase President George W Bush, “The Sun and Red Haired people can never peacefully co-exist”. If he had said this history would not now hold him in contempt. But he didn’t. Poor lad.
If only Copernicus, Galileo et al had been Ginger.
Whilst catching some rays, their subsequent sunburn would have led them to the conclusion that the Earth rotates around the Sun. Just think about that for a second! Alright it is a load of cobblers but it might have happened.
Their subsequent ridicule, imprisonment and excommunication for a few centuries, may have been staved, before quite rightly Pope Nazi proffered apologies all round and allowed Catholics to believe the Earth is not flat, Brad Pitt can act and that condoms are more than a handy device for browning bananas.
Anyway enough of Science, back to my holiday.
The Mosquito bites were now in full bloom. So much so that a blind Greek beggar deciphered a Braille message from the wounds around my ankles that read;
“You are not suited to this climate, find somewhere cool and wet for future holidays. Fool!”
Even more impressive the message was in French.
And itch! But at least I discovered that Calamine lotion is an adequate replacement for coconut in Pina Coladas. Although it takes a bit of getting used to.
There is a lesser talked side effect of sunburn. It may be a bit “After the Lord Mayor’s show” in terms of fame but it can cause equal discomfort in social settings. Peeling skin.
Not the everyday shedding of skin that is a natural part of the regenerative process and allows cosmetic companies to fleece – there’s that word again – woman of a certain age – but the wholesale peeling of layer upon layer of the old dermis that left me looking like I’d undergone dissection by cack handed medical undergraduate.
At one point an entire layer came away from my stomach region including the belly button area. At least I found somewhere to store loose change. It now sits on top of the mantelpiece as a conversation piece when people I don’t like arrive at Fightback Towers for nibbles.
“That’s an interesting piece what’s it made of?”
“My skin. Cheesey dips anyone?”
Has them rolling in the aisles. Not really. More like reaching for their coats and making a mercy dash to feed the goldfish. Sorry, Koi Carp. Shy fish? You live and learn.
Another handy application for profuse skin shedding is based upon the Greek Myth of Theseus and the Minotaur. For like Theseus, I could always find my way out of the labyrinthine beer fug the local Tavernas induced.
Not with the legendary ball of string though. I merely had to follow the desiccated skin peelings left by my soulless passage towards Hades (The Irish Theme Pub) to ensure a safe if wobbly passage home to me very own Athena.
A Cooking Tip!
Grating dead skin over pasta dishes for unwanted visitors clears a room quickly.
“This parmesan has such an intense flavour, where does it come from?”
“My buttock region. Want some more?”
“Really. We must go. The Goldfish are starving.”
But I won’t keep carping on about this.
“Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy.”