I made a typical Scottish holiday blunder, and now I'm paying the price

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I have a Scrabble-related injury.

Last weekend, we were on holiday, and played this board game in the garden.

I had my back to the sun, and he takes SO long on his turns that I think we need to get a clock, like chess players have. Anyway, while he was agonising over what to do with a green tray that contained only consonants, I could feel my back getting hotter.

It’s fine, I thought, as, earlier that day, I’d half-heartedly spritzed my arms and neck with some ancient SPF 30 that has probably kept us going for about seven summers in a row.

The sensation was probably my cue to go get a cover-up, However, I think, like a lot of Scottish folk, I don’t really know what to do when it gets sunny.

It’s confusing. Cold, I see you, my old adversary. No comprende heat.

My main thought was that I needed some vitamin D and it was only 21 degrees, so no big deal. Also, I’d had a wee drinkie, so my inner health and safety jobsworth was snoozing with their feet up.

So, we played another couple of rounds, then we went to the beach, and chilled in the dunes, while I smugly thought about how I’d beaten him three times in a row.

Anyway, I was to harvest some bad juju, as, after we got back to the house, I noticed that my shoulders and back were the same colour as medium rare steak.

This doesn’t usually happen to me. I'm always peely-wally. I’m often mistaken for a ghost or a pint of milk, especially if I stand on a doorstep. Usually, I scuttle inside whenever it gets vaguely hot.

In fact, we recently bought a new house, and I said “good” when I discovered it has a north-facing garden.

I’m definitely more of a woodlouse than a butterfly. Taps on, all the way. I’m happy to sit in the undergrowth, among the ferns, while he’s the sunflower.

There has never been any incentive for me to be outside, getting a tan, because my skin doesn’t ever change colour. My late dad used to turn this beautiful glossy Cuprinol shade, after ten minutes in the sun, but I haven’t inherited that gene.

This sensation is quite bewilderingly new to me.

The night of the ill-fated Scrabble game, I couldn’t sleep. It hurt to lie on my back, or my side, so I had to squash my face flat into the pillow and nearly passed on from suffocation in the stuffy bedroom. In the end, I had to wet some kitchen roll, and plaster it to my shoulders, to cool my skin off.

I also developed a throbbing headache and spots in front of my eyes, so, as 2am hit, I managed to convince myself I also had sunstroke. Don’t worry, I survived the night. Just a light case of dehydration and hypochondria.

However, I haven’t had a bad sunburn like this since I was a kid, in the days when grown-ups didn’t put any SPF on their offspring, but let us cook ourselves alive.

Every summer, we were all like chipolatas sizzling on the barbecue.

There was no such thing as suncream in our suitcase, when we went on our first and only family holiday abroad, to Malaga back in the Eighties. I was about eight, and my sister was six. It was a great break, especially as we got hooked on eating salt-dusted sunflower seeds and had swordfish at the local restaurant.

As all children did, we ran wild on the streets, without any parental supervision. I learnt that it was fun to get lifted up by waves in the sea, then let them crash me down on the stony shore and temporarily render me unconscious, before going back in again, and again. Fun!

My sister threw a stone for a dog to chase, but it hit a sunbather on the head. Yay!

See, Lord of the Flies.

Mainly, we enjoyed playing tig with our new pals - the local children, who’d run after us, only to pinch our cheeks when they caught up with us. It meant hours outside, in the sun.

I do remember the less fun nights afterwards, in the apartment. There was all the crying and being unable to sleep, because I was so burnt, and my mum had to run me baths that were rendered pink with calamine lotion.

I’m thinking of investing in some more of that stuff, to get me through this period of recuperation. The bog-standard Nivea isn’t cutting it.

It still hurts to lie on my back, and showers are pretty torturous.

I have also had to adapt my wardrobe, so that nobody can see the scarlet shame of a reckless sunworshipper.

That’s difficult, when you have linebacker shoulders, like me. And I can’t be doing a very good job of hiding it, since someone said “nice sunburn” when I went to yesterday’s gym class, even though I had my most voluminous singlet on. When I turned round and looked in the mirror, I could see the lobster wings popping out from the back.

Anyway, according to Google, I only have a few days before it starts to fade.

Then I can start peeling like a lizard. Hopefully, my new layer of skin will mark a time of reflection, when I can consider investing in new sunscreen that has a higher SPF and is less heavily expired.

Perhaps I’ll also petition for Scrabble time limits, and for it to remain an indoor pursuit.

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