Tanning regrets

It’s so strange the way, on holiday, the more tanned you get the more beautiful you feel. And the more men stare. So you get this feeling you are just looking more and more gorgeous. (Also start to feel great about being in a bikini because the tan makes the flab OK somehow, also the beach is full of really flobbly people or people of 70, all proudly wearing teeny bikinis. Also monstrously furry Greek men in teeny Speedos but I won’t talk about them.) And on the flight home everyone is smiling, like members of a new club. And then you get into your flat. (Smelling, strangely, of old dog. And of a mouse that Mirabelle somehow managed to find, half-eat, and hide down the back of the sofa, where it now has maggots. Ugh.)
And the first time you look in the bathroom mirror you reel back in horror cos your face looks suddenly all dry and scaly and flakey and coarse. Horrific. I’m completely slathered in anti-ageing cream now. Glistening like a slug at my desk. It’s so cold I’m having to wear tights so no one can see my gorgeous brown legs that I lavished so much basting attention on. And no one has commented on my tan. I can see one freckly thing on my arm at the moment, that just CANT be a liver spot. Surely you don’t get them at 36, do you? Aaagh.