Gosh, isn’t it a drag when the glare of the gorgeous summer sun bounces off the screen and you can’t see what you’re typing?
This is just one of the challenges this sudden surge of decent weather brings:
This may surprise you but I’m not a high-maintenance glamour puss. I’m not even medium to low. If anything I’m sub-maintenance; a bit like a second hand Hyundai: reliable, pretty cheap to run and charming to look at in a duffed up, scuffed-round-the-edges kind of way.
I’m talking about physically of course. As my other half/children/family will confirm, emotionally and psychologically I’m off the scale maintenance-wise. Forget a handful, I’m two armfuls and then some.
Thankfully though its only physical imperfections that become glaringly obvious in sunshine. My feet are shown little love and are so gnarled and flakey that a passing mountain goat would tut-tut and suggest a quick pedicure.
My legs are ok as I’m not very hairy, though this can lull me into a false sense of security as I don’t shave them for weeks and manage to cultivate a small pasture of lush follicles just on one small patch of my inner calf. From a distance it probably looks like a pan scourer is stuck to my leg.
The décolletage must be protected by a high factor to prevent premature crepe paper cleavage. It’s all rather exhausting.
On the upside, my moustache has gone lighter in the sun so if left to bloom, looks more Keith Lemon and less Kevin Webster ‘82, which has got to be a good thing.