You know last week, how I introduced you to the digable, sprinkable, squeezable splendour that is my best pal sand? Well this week I've found something else for you. It is something about which I feel equally passionate, fervent and obsessive. Because it is absolutely r-u-b-b-i-s-h.
That stupid burning orange ball.
It sits there in the blue stuff glaring down at us with its hot shinyness and bullies my body into oozing the slick, greasy liquid that spills from my brow and seems intent on dripping in my eyes. It even tries to impair my vision when I am in the important business of hitting stuff, a time when I certainly don't need beads of sweat clouding my judgement - the force with which I clang stuff together could easily see me lose one of the teeth I haven't even got yet. And not only does it get in my eyes, but it makes my armpits stick together. And it smells like Dad's shoes. I don't like it.
Secondly, when that red blob pops up in the sky, out comes The White Stuff. Mum ABSOLUTELY CAKES ME in that sticky, cloying, glue-like paste like it's going out of fashion. On it goes; be the body part visible to the sun or a rather more intimate area, she's taking no chances. With blatant disregard for the sterling effort I have put into cultivating the three lustrous hairs that sit proudly atop my shining bonce, she slathers handfuls of the muck across my fod, so I end up resembling a younger, more attractive Dr Emmett Brown. Despite my objections, she presses on intent on ensuring that post application not a millimetre of my entire shell is recognisable as flesh related. This greatly undoes my daily endeavours to establish my gansta rep.
It makes my room BLISTERINGLY HOT AND STIFLING UNCOMFORTABLE. It means I have to listen to the whirring of that useless fan all night and I have to sleep in just a nappy without even a blanket to protect my modesty. It makes me wake up dead early and go to sleep dead late. Sleep deprivation is a form of torture you know. Well I can vouch for that - Mum and Dad have totally lost the plot.
And after making me hot, making me sweat, making me have to be plastered in cream, making me sleepless AND occasionally making parts of my skin get really hot and red; you know what the worse thing about the sun is?
That all the bloody idiots around me stop playing with me to SIT OUT IN IT and ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT.
Thank God we live in Britain. It's been here all day, so at least that's it over for another twelve months.