Ebony and ivory...
The husband spent the whole of yesterday on the roof of a neighbour's house. I should point out that this wasn't a rooftop protest he was involved in. He wasn't screaming out how hard done by he was at regarding his living conditions. Nor was he moaning about the state of his food (although I am sure there have been times when he's been tempted). He was in fact tiling a roof as part of a large extension he is doing.
Consequently, he returned home yesterday afternoon with what I fondly call 'roofer's back'. If you were approaching him from behind, you'd think he'd been sunning his body in the south of France for a month. Get past him though, and the front is more Scunthorpe than St Tropez.
His tan marks are interesting to say the least. The husband, being a tough Northern chap, gets into shorts as soon as possible for work. Of course, from a safety point of view, heavy work boots and thick socks are de rigeur, which give his legs the look of a Newcastle FC scarf by the time the summer is over. I almost want to follow him around with a brown felt tipped pen, and colour in the bits that the sun couldn't get...
The trouble is, that his feet, ever white with a blue tinge, draw attention to the dreaded sandals he chooses to wear when off duty (see yesterday's rant). The contrast is extreme, and I think that I may resort to putting fake tan into his shower gel, to see whether I can get his feet and ankles to a colour which is in keeping with the rest of him.
Tanning is a competitive pastime in our house. Of the six of us, four tan very easily, merely needing the thermometer to tiptoe past 60 degrees (fahrenheit, before you start panicking) to get a rosy glow. The other two struggle. Daughter number 2, after a trip to the Canaries last year, left home looking like a stick of chalk, and returned looking like a tin of Magnolia paint. She was very proud of a tan line she had achieved, although it had faded before she'd even unpacked. Son number 2 is affectionately known as Caspar for his permanent translucent appearance, irrespective of the weather.
Going back to the husband, he spent an hour ferretting through my dressing table looking for some after-sun. It's a brave man who goes anywhere near those drawers. As a woman of a certain age, there are lotions and potions for everything in them.
Pick the wrong one, and he could have been looking at a far bigger problem than sunburn.
A smooth-as-silk back at best, or at worst, a hairy one, but with highlights......
Consequently, he returned home yesterday afternoon with what I fondly call 'roofer's back'. If you were approaching him from behind, you'd think he'd been sunning his body in the south of France for a month. Get past him though, and the front is more Scunthorpe than St Tropez.
His tan marks are interesting to say the least. The husband, being a tough Northern chap, gets into shorts as soon as possible for work. Of course, from a safety point of view, heavy work boots and thick socks are de rigeur, which give his legs the look of a Newcastle FC scarf by the time the summer is over. I almost want to follow him around with a brown felt tipped pen, and colour in the bits that the sun couldn't get...
The trouble is, that his feet, ever white with a blue tinge, draw attention to the dreaded sandals he chooses to wear when off duty (see yesterday's rant). The contrast is extreme, and I think that I may resort to putting fake tan into his shower gel, to see whether I can get his feet and ankles to a colour which is in keeping with the rest of him.
Tanning is a competitive pastime in our house. Of the six of us, four tan very easily, merely needing the thermometer to tiptoe past 60 degrees (fahrenheit, before you start panicking) to get a rosy glow. The other two struggle. Daughter number 2, after a trip to the Canaries last year, left home looking like a stick of chalk, and returned looking like a tin of Magnolia paint. She was very proud of a tan line she had achieved, although it had faded before she'd even unpacked. Son number 2 is affectionately known as Caspar for his permanent translucent appearance, irrespective of the weather.
Going back to the husband, he spent an hour ferretting through my dressing table looking for some after-sun. It's a brave man who goes anywhere near those drawers. As a woman of a certain age, there are lotions and potions for everything in them.
Pick the wrong one, and he could have been looking at a far bigger problem than sunburn.
A smooth-as-silk back at best, or at worst, a hairy one, but with highlights......
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