Jonny McCambridge: Suncream 1, Jonny 0: a cautionary tale for pale people everywhere

While it is difficult to be precise, it appears that I have suffered a bite and the affected (infected?) patch of skin is swelling at an alarming rate.

My attempts to be discreet have, inevitably, failed and I hear my wife stirring in the bed beside me as my head re-emerges from under the duvet, like an ocean diver bursting breathlessly back to the surface.

“What on earth are you doing?” she inquires, not unreasonably.

“I've been bitten,” I declare with no small amount of drama.

“Bitten by what?”, she inquires, again not unreasonably.

I consider the possible answers in order of implausibility. A zombie. A vampire. A giant anaconda. A crocodile or alligator. A mutant mosquito. A rabid dog. An over-excited toddler. A bat. A midge.

“It's hard to know for sure,” I declare gravely. “Something with razor-sharp teeth.”

At this point I should aid the reader with navigation. I am not reporting from a tent while exploring the Amazonian rainforest. I am not even on my annual holiday in the Mediterranean where there are no shortage of blood-thirsty bugs desperate to feast on my pale skin.

Instead I am at home in Northern Ireland in the early hours of a Sunday morning in April. The previous day was reasonably sunny. Not a scorcher, but our first fine day of the year.

I really, really, really, really, really do not want to be that guy who complains through the bitter and wet winter and then, as soon as the fine weather returns, does a pivot and begins to moan about the sun.

But here I am, after just the briefest of exposure to the brighter elements and my leg now has both the appearance and capacity of a tree trunk. I shake my head sadly at the cruelty of it all.

Running back over the events of the previous day, I am certain that I did my best to be responsible. I knew from the forecast that it was likely to be sunny. I knew that I would be spending a fair amount of the day outside. I knew that I would be wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I've been burnt (figuratively and literally) too many times before.

I began by applying factor 50 suncream. In addition, I put on the prescription gel I have to protect the areas of sun damage on my skin.

Then I put on a large-brimmed hat and sunglasses before I emerged hesitantly from the front door, blinking uncertainly in the glare. I ran the lawnmower tentatively around the front garden a few times before I stopped to say hello to my next-door neighbour.

I removed the hat and glasses temporarily so she would not mistake me for a burglar (the unusual sort who mow peoples' lawns rather than stealing their belongings).

I had been outside, fully covered up, for less than 20 minutes. My neighbour took one look at me before exclaiming, 'You've got a bit of the sun alright today Jonny.”

I retreated inside and stared at myself in the mirror. It was undeniable that despite all my efforts, there was a redder tinge to my skin than from half an hour before.

I knew that I would have to return to the lawn. I applied another layer of the thick and gooey suncream to all of the exposed areas. By now I had put so much of the lotion on that I resembled a cross-channel swimmer who is slathered with lard. If my son had tried to hug me then I would have slipped right through his arms.

Short of donning a beekeeper's hat or an astronaut suit (not practical for grass cutting), it was difficult to see what else I could do. I ventured back outside and resumed my labour.

Hours later, with the garden in a much-improved state I went to bed. I was satisfied and perhaps even a little bit smug that for the first year in my adult life, I had not been significantly burnt on the first sunny day of the year.

But now, in the dark hours, the true extent of my folly has been exposed. While my attention was focused on the flaming giant ball of gas 93,000,000 miles away, it was not on the tiny bugs flying about my garden on a moderately warm day in spring.

I try to get back to sleep but the itch from my wound is too persistent. I limp towards the first aid box in the bathroom and attempt to find an ointment to apply to my aching leg.

In my latest attempt to be selfless I neglect to turn on the light because I do not want to wake my son. I select a tube, peer at it suspiciously in the dark, shrug my shoulders and rub the cream into my calf.

“Oh…oh…oh….oh…OH…OH…OH….OH….OHHHH!!!”

I turn on the light to discover that I have applied Deep Heat to my already flaming leg. I spend 20 minutes with it under the cold water tap in the bath before I return to bed, defeated.

I know the next day is also to be sunny. I know a family barbecue is planned. I think of all the work to prepare myself, all the lotions and potions I will have to apply and, just for the briefest of moments, I yearn for a cloudy day.

Almost at once I am deeply ashamed by the instinct. It is only a few weeks since I was complaining on this page that it seemed like the rain would never end.

I promise you that I really, really, really, really, really do like the sun. It's just that it doesn't much seem to like me.