For the tanned goddesses out there who, after a mere half hour have turned a beaming gold, bathing in the sun can be a relaxing and rewarding experience, but for pale creatures such as myself, lying partially clothed on a beach for three hours can be a torturous chore. I’m sure I don’t speak only for myself when I say that crossing the road after a particularly drawn out sunning session only to find I could be used as a human traffic light isn’t fun.

Written by Natalie Armstrong

I just don’t see how sunbathing till you’re crispy is a pleasurable activity. By the time I arrive at the public beach – which my health crazed mother makes me walk to – I’m already sweating so much that all I really want to do is run back home and jump into the shower. Instead, I have to immerse myself into the sea.

I feel like an extra in a vegetable soup – me being the vegetable.

Then there’s the sand, which relentlessly burns the already hot undersides of my feet and goes out of its way to get in between my toes, in my hair, on the screen of my iPod, ears and any other unwelcome spot it can lodge. Is nowhere private anymore?

And so I lie, completely devoid of protection, underneath the burning sun, cursing my pocket money for not being sufficient enough for a spray tan, suffering creeping boredom and taking sneaky glances down my person to see if I’ve gone up a level on the colour scale. It’s like we’re cooking ourselves; we go out and buy ourselves a nice new sun bed (a tray), a lovely new swimsuit (garnish), slap on some oil and bake. Is it just me or is all this … weird?

I say let the goddesses have their beach; sun only brings on wrinkles and premature aging – we’ll see who has the last laugh in twenty odd years. If beauty be pain, count me out.