Blink and you might have missed it but last week we saw a little bit of sunshine.
I know, it’s hard to believe – especially as I’m writing this with the wind howling off the Prom and the rain drumming against the window – but for just a couple of days it felt like summer. That, of course, means I’ve managed to get sunburned.
It doesn’t take much – I’m not blessed with much resistance when it comes to the elements.
A sunny Sunday at the zoo did for me, good and proper, and I’ve spent the last week hiding inside with a tub of moisturiser.
I’m glad I wasn’t in the office because, when it comes to sunburn I’m afraid I’ve got form.
It’s nothing, before you get the wrong idea, to do with any kind of jet-setting.
Since the little ones arrived my travels have been very much curtailed and, besides, I’ve never really struggled with sunburn overseas.
So, if I can avoid the blisters in Ho Chi Minh City and Havana, why does Fleetwood pose so much of a problem?
That’s where I suffered my worst ever case of work related sunburn – when a sinking ferry left me stranded on a blistering Tram Sunday.
Trust me to rely on public transport – a cunning plan to avoid the desperate hunt for a parking spot.
All very well until I arrived at the jetty to sail back to Knott End, only to be told the boat was, well, taking on water.
By the time the bus turned up it was too late.
The only time I got close to repeating such an agonising scorching was the day our illustrious leader sent me out to participate in a mud rescue exercise.
Little did I know it was me being rescued but three hours sunk into the banks of the Wyre, in a survival suit left me with a face that might be best described as a reverse Tellytubby – a rosy red ring in the shape of my ungainly outfit.
Having made a bad start this year, I’m determined to make amends – not to end up nursing an avoidable bout of blistering.
That’s why this summer, every time the sun has got his hat on, I’m going to make sure I wear mine too – as well as a liberal dose of cream.