Sat 23rd May 2009

I utilised the nice weather by going on a 20 mile bike ride down the canals with my Dad and my Sister. We probably could have gone even further too, but the route was particularly bumpy and we started becoming victim to ‘saddle arse’ (well, not my Dad. In typical Dad-style, he’d had both the foresight and inhibition-less tenacity to apply Vaseline to his 'dark star' as he called it, before we set out). It was my sister who was the most vocal about this complaint. I was secretly pleased because it meant that I didn’t have to moan about my own saddle arse and look like it was me who wanted to give up first.

Whenever a woman moans in the company of men, I am always tempted to respond with the cheeky quip, “Why are you moaning so much? I thought fat women were supposed to be jolly?” Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – what with yesterday’s entry detailing lairy distress of the French and now this - have I got my eye on a on being some sort of heir to Jeremy Clarkson, but I like the idea of this joke. I would not think of saying it to someone recovering from an eating disorder or anything, but I don’t see it really being about weight. Response-wise, it’d work irrespective of a person’s size because the humour derives more from the kind of haplessly tactless audacity of the statement rather than of weight itself. Yet despite temptation I have always refrained from using it. Maybe when all is said and done l feel political uneasiness over whether such a joke could really be perceived as non-sexist and self-deprecatory. Or maybe I have just become too accustomed to the rotund, three-dimensional shape that my own testicles currently inhabit.

I’ve actually caught a touch of sunburn. I’ve got that (not entirely unpleasant) ‘Ready Brek’ glow which keeps you warm as you stroll around in the evening dusk. And when I walked through the doorway of the pub tonight I thought I was actually walking under a patio heater, because my forehead was so sensitive to the warmth of the indoor air. I’d almost forgotten what that feels like. I’m sure there must have been some sunny spells but the last two summers have seemed such an unremitting wasteland of overcast gloom, that whenever people commented that I ‘look like I have caught the sun a bit’, my disbelief and hypochondria kicked in to convince me I must simply have symptoms of high blood pressure. But today there is no question; it is sunburn, so I can be confidently liberated from any blood pressure fears and worry about something more worthwhile. Actually, given the nature of hypochondria, I’ll probably just worry about skin cancer instead. Technically speaking, this isn’t a prospect that’s any better; but then they do always say a change is as good as a rest.