I am writing this under a shade of wisteria, on holiday in Tuscany with the temperature at 29C. My partner's pale skin is on its way to becoming golden brown as she sprawls on a sunbed, lathered with suntan lotion, and desperately trying to hold her novel at an angle where she does not block the sun or drop it from her oily fingers. Unlike me, she is sweating and uncomfortable, counting the minutes before she cools off in the swimming pool.
She is one of the thousands of white folk right now who are desperately trying to get tanned in order to forget that back home this summer has been the least sunny in years.
Earlier this week it was reported that scientists are developing a pill to prevent sunburn that could be available within five years. Why bother? Just stop sunbathing. Being a hypochondriac, I have enough to worry about without adding skin cancer to the list. Anyone who doubts how dangerous excessive sunbathing can be need only look at the rates of skin cancer in Australia, one of the highest in the world.
Lying in the sun is boring, uncomfortable, dangerous and silly – and the end result is often burned, peeling skin and sunstroke. Even if you use proper protection, don't stay exposed too long, and avoid those ugly-looking white strips caused by your watch or bra strap. It quickly fades, leaving you tempted towards the tanning salon or sunbed. Before you know it, you dare not return to your natural shade lest people think you are ill, and Tommy Sheridan is looking back at you from the mirror.
People used to go on holiday to get tanned, now they get tanned to go on holiday, with the spray-tan salons becoming increasingly popular for those who hate the idea of being the whitest person on the beach.
How ironic that relatively few black Britons appear to be at ease on the beaches of holiday destinations compared to white. Every year I go away with my closest friend who is black mixed race. Before we reluctantly gave up on the Greek and Canary Islands for cooler destinations, she would be stared at by white people who would ask, incredulously, why she "needed" to sunbathe. My friend would often point out that she was far lighter than they had become. The idea that soaking up the sun is a white person's privilege makes the idea of doing so seem even more ridiculous.
In his book on tanning, Sunshine: One Man's Search for Happiness, Robert Mighall charts a fascinating history of our relationship with the sun. Sunbathing is a class issue. Prior to the 20th century those who could avoid the sun did so. Extremely pale skin was de rigueur, and only those who worked outdoors – in other words, the poor – were tanned. Therefore posh people would judge the commoners on how much the sun had touched their skin. Women would wear wide-brimmed hats to avoid even a trickle of sunlight, with some even coating their skin with white makeup.
When the tables turned and the working classes began to work in factories, thereby becoming pale, things changed and the genteel sought the sun.
Today, suntans can still be a class signifier. Think of TV sitcoms such as Benidorm, in which Madge, with her orange, leathery tan is the really common one and a figure of fun. TV documentaries on addiction to sunbeds portray "tanorexics" as working class girls and women who seem to devote their lives to turning orange in order to pull a footballer.
Not getting my kit off on the beach has definitely helped on the sexual harassment front. I am not suggesting here that women should sport a high-necked Crimplene catsuit on the beach in case men start making a nuisance of themselves. Rather that sunbathing requires a prone position, and often sends you to sleep. Last time I sunbathed, some years ago, I awoke to find a man crouching behind me, having a right old play with his meat and two veg. I really can do without the hassle.
As a lesbian I wondered if others in the club had strong feelings, but when I Googled lesbians and sunbathing it appeared to be a porn genre.
Personally, a tendency to martyrdom plays a part in me eschewing the sun. Last month my face became accidentally scorched while working in France. On my return just about everyone asked me if I had been on holiday and said I "looked well".
As the sun dips behind the cloud on this Tuscan mountain I crave for it to come back, and to bathe the fruit trees and tomato plants with its glorious yellow glow. I can admire its beauty without asking it to make me look a fool.
