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| Doors to my shame |
Summer. Pah. I don’t believe a word of it. If the past three years are anything to go by, I should be buying wellies and rain ponchos rather than ditsy floral playsuits. Although I do admit the former to be rather handy at Electric Picnic. Regardless, our fickle clime does little to dissuade my inner American from pining after a good ‘aul tan. You know, the kind that makes you look less like a pasty corpse, more like a Ralph Lauren campaign model. Sigh. If only...
It seems the melanin gods have a less colourful life in store for me. Since emigrating in reverse so many years ago, my skin has adjusted to the rain/wind/possibly hail/maybe sunshine combo that besets our fair isle. I guess that puts me out of the running as the face of Rockstar Tan. Auditions are being held in Arnotts on Saturday April 24th in a nationwide search to find a potential model for the brand. The prize of a 1st Option contract, a Lili Forberg shoot and a spread in Stellar magazine can do little however to persuade my limbs for a shot at the big time.
Let me fill you in. Not so long ago I was having dinner in Saba with a stylist friend of mine from LA. So keen was I to emulate her West Coast sheen, we hit up Brown Thomas for some Fake Bake before our Pad Thai. Without any liquid courage, she somehow convinces me to be sprayed in the toilets. Just my legs of course. Would only take a minute. Soon I find myself stripped to the smalls and making like John Wayne at Glastonbury.
Then...the smoke alarm goes off. Somehow (a member of staff?) knocks on the toilet door telling us to get out. Panicked, I try getting dressed; something the bottle says is a bad idea (see: streaks). Not so fast. What about the brown goo all over the toilet, the floor, the sink, the wall? After desperately trying to clean the mess with my cardigan, (much to my friend’s amusement) we exit hastily through the restaurant, hoping not to be noticed. Several glances from unsuspecting diners confirm that hope is indeed a medicine for the miserable. What’s more, it starts to rain.
Needless to say, my scarred psyche still smarts when passing a beauty counter. As for Clarendon Street? Let’s not even go there...
