Sunshine on my shoulder.....
Words from a Bird. Day 118...
As befitting a last day in the sunshine, the three of us really went hell for leather (appropriate choice of word) on Monday. The temperature probably tipped at around 30 degrees, but did we care? No, we just kept on piling the factor 30 (or in Mrs W's case, two layers of factor 15). Keeping hydrated was obviously vital, so fifteen pints of Sangria were imbibed throughout the afternoon ( from 11.00 actually, but let's not be too picky). There was an element of turning over between drunken snoozes, to ensure an even suntan, but I have to confess that as Mrs W and I didn't need to disrobe for some months, we concentrated on the bits people could see - face and hands.
By the end of the day, if you had been walking behind me, you would have thought that I had been to Scarborough for a week, but the front looked fab, so I was happy. Mrs W and Miss R had a few red patches, but seemingly nothing too much to worry about.
It wasn't till we got to the room that it became apparent as to the severity of over sunning their very British blue-tinged skin. Miss R had burned her derriere quite severely, exacerbated further by her time spent on a plastic chair whilst thrashing me at Scrabble (we reckoned that about three layers of skin were lost when she finally stood up). Mrs W had a different problem altogether, with her scorch marks being around the bosom area.
The two of them put layer after layer of Aloe Vera on, each resembling something that might live in a swamp (I'm thinking Shrek) but as the morning of our departure dawned, it became obvious that nothing short of a skin graft was going to solve the problem.
As we were getting dressed for our last breakfast, Mrs W suggested that someone had been in and washed all our jeans on a boil wash and then tumble dried them, as it was the only reason she could think of to explain why all our jeans were snugger than the journey out. Miss R blamed the Sangria Saddlebags which we all seemed to have grown over the five days.
Tight clothes and sunburn are not a good mix. Miss R couldn't bend her legs without shouting an expletive, so she goose stepped up and down past the breakfast buffet (thus upsetting the Germans once more). At one point, her thighs were in danger of setting the smoke alarms off, so great was the heat resonating from them. Mrs W was unable to put her brassiere on. (This cheered the Finns up which evened things out a bit). Fortunately, she had a scarf, which when artfully draped, concealed what needed concealing.
As we touched down at Gatwick, their relief was palpable......Not because we had landed safely, oh no.....It was bloody freezing, and I could almost hear Miss R's thighs and Mrs |W's bosom give a small cheer....
I on the other hand did not....
As befitting a last day in the sunshine, the three of us really went hell for leather (appropriate choice of word) on Monday. The temperature probably tipped at around 30 degrees, but did we care? No, we just kept on piling the factor 30 (or in Mrs W's case, two layers of factor 15). Keeping hydrated was obviously vital, so fifteen pints of Sangria were imbibed throughout the afternoon ( from 11.00 actually, but let's not be too picky). There was an element of turning over between drunken snoozes, to ensure an even suntan, but I have to confess that as Mrs W and I didn't need to disrobe for some months, we concentrated on the bits people could see - face and hands.
By the end of the day, if you had been walking behind me, you would have thought that I had been to Scarborough for a week, but the front looked fab, so I was happy. Mrs W and Miss R had a few red patches, but seemingly nothing too much to worry about.
It wasn't till we got to the room that it became apparent as to the severity of over sunning their very British blue-tinged skin. Miss R had burned her derriere quite severely, exacerbated further by her time spent on a plastic chair whilst thrashing me at Scrabble (we reckoned that about three layers of skin were lost when she finally stood up). Mrs W had a different problem altogether, with her scorch marks being around the bosom area.
The two of them put layer after layer of Aloe Vera on, each resembling something that might live in a swamp (I'm thinking Shrek) but as the morning of our departure dawned, it became obvious that nothing short of a skin graft was going to solve the problem.
As we were getting dressed for our last breakfast, Mrs W suggested that someone had been in and washed all our jeans on a boil wash and then tumble dried them, as it was the only reason she could think of to explain why all our jeans were snugger than the journey out. Miss R blamed the Sangria Saddlebags which we all seemed to have grown over the five days.
Tight clothes and sunburn are not a good mix. Miss R couldn't bend her legs without shouting an expletive, so she goose stepped up and down past the breakfast buffet (thus upsetting the Germans once more). At one point, her thighs were in danger of setting the smoke alarms off, so great was the heat resonating from them. Mrs W was unable to put her brassiere on. (This cheered the Finns up which evened things out a bit). Fortunately, she had a scarf, which when artfully draped, concealed what needed concealing.
As we touched down at Gatwick, their relief was palpable......Not because we had landed safely, oh no.....It was bloody freezing, and I could almost hear Miss R's thighs and Mrs |W's bosom give a small cheer....
I on the other hand did not....
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