Sunbed Shenanigans

I fancied a sunbed today, new year, new me and all that.
Now I don’t know about you, but I find the entire experience of a sunbed extremely stressful.

For a start, being fair (and when I say fair I mean ‘white as a fucking sheet’), the sunbed lady, who has now known me for approximately 6 years looks me up and down like a nodding dog.
Sometimes, she even throws in a ‘oooh I don’t think you should do 8 love, when was the last time you had one?’
‘It was yesterday, and I’m sorry if I dont look like Madge from Benidorm but thats just the way it is’.

I also never enjoy the ‘have you got cream?’ interrogation. No, I haven’t got cream, no I dont want cream. I’m far from a cheapskate ladies and gentleman but to pay £5 for a sachet of what, in effect, does the same job as poundhsop cocoa butter, makes about as much sense as Dappy being in ‘celebrity’ Big Brother.

I love the way the sunbed sales woman always tuts ‘oooh you’ll never get a colour’. No, no I wont. Laying inbetween 12 1000 watt bulbs for 8 minutes will have absolutly no effect on me what so ever will it?

Once you do pass the gatekeeper, you assume you can relax, have a sunbed, and sod off. But still so so many obstacles to over come.

Now I’m a quick undresser. I’m a bloody quick undresser (see ‘stripper on ice’). But give me that little red ‘countdown timer’ and I’m slower than an 89 year old check out woman.

It reminds me of the NASA shuttle launch count down, and in turn, I faff, fall, get things caught and usually have seconds to spare (what DOES actually happen if you take longer than the allocated 5 minutes to get dressed?).

And then the finale. You FINALLY get on the sunbed, and I dont know about you, but EVERY SINGLE NOISE the sunbed makes symbolizes the fact it is going to explode, engulf you in a ball of flames and kill you slowly.

I can hear you all asking me why i dont don’t use fake tan. Thats another story…..

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