The picnic sunburn seriously imposed on what I have been doing for the past two days. In order to avoid a repeat of my itchy crazed Jane Eyre encounter, I had to implement an intense recovery strategy for my skin. In short, I stayed inside a lot covering myself with white creamy stuff. As soon as I arrived home from the picnic, I stripped to finally get rid of the salty, itchy shirt. But it appears the itch was not from the shirt, but from my skin. Shirt, I apologize. The reason why I hadn’t thought I was sunburnt was because I was actually sunburnt the same amount all over, an even burn, quite an impressive feat. It’s like if I was shrunk to the size of a coin, but everything else was also shrunk to scale, I wouldn’t realize I had been shrunk.
Thoughts of my last attempt to save my skin rushed through my mind. I took a strong stance: I resolved I would not quiver over my sink slapping myself all over with teabags this time. This time Nivea would save me. I slathered thick gloops of aftersun everywhere at 15 minute intervals. My skin was just lapping the stuff up. I got excited and added more and more, basting myself all over like an underdone Krispy Kreme. I then ran out of Nivea and moved onto the coco butter scented Vaseline moisturiser, to make myself smell more like an underdone Krispy Kreme. At this point I learnt that the human body can only take so much moisture and my skin stopped accepting the stuff. Caked in a thin layer of dried up rapidly-browning moisturiser I started spraying vinegar on myself. I was in this state of panicked skincare between 6.30pm and midnight and I can honestly say that I have never smeared more cream all over my body in such a short period of time. Interesting stuff.
The next morning, yesterday morning, I awoke to what I hotly expected, sore, dry and still red skin. I dared not venture out of the house until I had to leave for lunch, meaning that my morning consisted of me sitting very still in my underwear, pretending to be a snowman. I got to rowing and had an argument with one of the electricity men who work in the area where we store the boats. I was trying to sit in an unused plastic chair so that I might rest in the shade, but he, in Dhivehi, cursed me and shouted and pointed and did a whole manner of things. I had some local muscle as backup, but he would not relent, even when it was explained I was suffering from a condition called “Brit Abroad” syndrome, with sunburn being one of the painful symptoms. Since I was very sure he had no clue what I was saying, for if he had the chair would have been mine long before, and everyone had to translate to him my reasoning, I called him a “tosser” and went on my painful way. I have added him to the very exclusive list of people who will not be receiving my carefully preserved box of Waitrose Christmas shortbread once the time comes that I am feeling suitably festive.
Although my skin hasn’t stopped hurting, it has gone quite brown! But I am suspicious of my body and I am currently waiting for the horrible morning in the upcoming few days when I shall wake up to find myself in a bed of my own dead skin.
And dem rainbows keep coming at rowing…