Twenty-four degrees Celsius and the natives have gone wild.
It has been three days of increasingly glorious, sunny weather and the Brits can hardly keep their shirts on, they’re so excited. Pasty chests abound. Walking through the city centre on Thursday , I spotted nine different men with their shirts off – and this was in the heart of the commercial district!
Being a tropical chick myself, I too am excited at the return – no – arrival for the first bloody time since I’ve been here, of properly warm sun, instead of the frigid disc that usually masquerades as such.
Having turned in my last 4000 word essay Friday, I am now free of the shackles of the library – until I start work on my dissertation at least. I spent much of the long summer day indulging in that Warwick Uni summer ritual – tanning in the piazza, taking breaks only to run to the ice cream truck strategically stationed nearby. Pure bliss.
After several hours of this, I realised that my watch-strap tan line has re-emerged. After months of being a sickly, washed-out brown, I could cry with happiness. I’m black again! I text several friends to share the good news.
So, see I do understand the jubilation of the Brits at the re-emergence of the sun. Still, I’m somewhat unnerved at the English enthusiasm for baring their flesh to the sun. Not a single one of the nine chests I spied on Thursday deserved to be uncovered. I can hardly fault them for being pasty, poor souls, but the chests fell into two categories- jucking-board bony or flubsy. It’s just not right.
I’m happy to see the sun too, but I have not inflicted my wobbly stomach on the masses – at least, not all at once. I raised my shirt ever so slightly to tan the bottom half and at some point I hope to tan the top half (not sure how to accomplish this without exposing my breasts however – though, if properly arranged, they could provide a welcome distraction from my belly). I feel this is only kind. These fellas should show similar consideration for their fellow man (and especially their fellow woman!)
Not only that, knowing the British predilection for streaking (at least based on what I’ve painfully witnessed watching cricket and Wimbledon tennis and football…) I fear where all this flesh-baring will lead.
I suspect it cannot end prettily.