Pale People

It’s sunny.

It’s actually sunny.

And hot.

Some (at least 86% of the British public) would say “it’s too hot”.

If you’re reading this in the UK, you’ll know that our collective revelry and comic revulsion regarding the sunshine is warranted.

After a very long, very wet and rather cold May, we can’t quite believe our balmy luck.

Throw in the fact that it’s a Bank Holiday too, I’m not surprised almost every car in my street has disappeared, if not for the weekend, then at least for the day.

Keeping in mind that even I (never a sun worshipper) had started to wonder if we’d ever bask in golden beams again, I plan to make this quick.

Because on a day like this, time feels even more precious and all anyone wants is to have some fun.

In that spirit, the recent reappearance of those long-awaited rays has led me to notice something that I, at least, find quietly amusing.

Being a pale person, I partake in this strange ritual.

It’s a ritual that begins the second anyone mentions that there may just be a hint of sunshine on the way.

It’s a ritual marked by an annual battle.

The battle to be Britain’s palest person.

We adopt a strange tone as we utter the words “Oh no, I do not tan, I just burn.”

Your opponent then likely replies, “Same! But does it turn to tan?”

“Oh no!” you reply. “It just goes red and peels!”

You think you’ve won.

But this is when things get interesting.

Your competitor pulls out their arm.

You feel obliged to do the same.

Palms down first.

Flip.

Palms up second.

The evidence is incontrovertible.

And yet still, there’s a reluctance to concede.

But concede you must.

“Ah, you might just have it there.”

Everyone thinks it’s over.

Wait.

Just when you thought you had nothing left to give, you remember you’ve got an all-conquering ticket up your now non-existent sleeve.

“Yeah, but usually in the winter I’m much paler than this.”

Curve ball.

Now there’s no way to verify the results until six months’ time, when we are once again swaddled in scarves, a welcome relief from being saturated in suncream.

You walk away the victor.

You’re satisfied with your uncontrollable genetics.

You can forget the pounds you spent on fake tan, aftersun, aloe vera and the like.

You’ve consoled yourself.

The Casper award goes to you.

And the best part?

We get to do it all again next year!