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Source: Reuters -
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Do you like the sun? I hate it. I don't hate it because Al Gore tells me that we're inviting more of it through the ozone, and thus frying the planet, and denying polar bears a place to mooch. I don't hate it because it's a god. I hate the sun because it hates me. It burns my ass.
You may have heard of tanning. Perhaps, you are planning some as you read this. Tanning is simple: subject inserts self in the path of radiation pouring in from outer space. A narcotic effect is induced as living skin cells are microwaved. Subject becomes drowsy, and filled with pleasant facies. Possibly reads large silly book. Possibly snoozes. Skin turns a darker hue in certain Caucasian subjects (see: George Clooney), and a slightly more burnished tone in Maori or Pacific Island ones. A general aura of health and well-being is conveyed, opening the floodgates to increased social interaction with other sun-worshippers, and fellow future-handbags.
For your humble, albino correspondent the tanning process works thus: Caught in the crosshairs of New Zealand summer, plus ozone hole, minus SPF 60, or hat, subject becomes sunburned. This process is characterised by sour agitated sensations, and general maudlin sympathy with how bacon feels in a searing pan. Subject turns red (see: saveloys). Subject blisters, and sheds skin in unattractive flaking chunks. Subject fails to turn appealing darker colour, but looks slightly unwashed. Social isolation ensues.
I recently skipped straight to the social isolation part while out on the frontlines of the ongoing Solar Passchendaele (what others would call 'a friendly summer barbie') this week: hat on, and sunscreen applied. Venison was cooking. Wine flowed. I began to ink white anti-sun goo on the tops of my hands.
"What are you doing?" someone asked.
"I don't want to get sunburned."
"Don't you like the sun?"
"No, I hate it."
Sharp intake of breath all round. I expressed my preference in muted terms, not mentioning the increased morbidity rates, the fact that 90 per cent of wrinkles are brought on by sun damage, i.e. if you want to look old and dead, keep sunbathing.
No matter. An avalanche of protestations ensued about how everyone loved said Ball of Intergalactic Hate, with the clear implication that said love was an appropriate celebration of the New Zealand summer.
I realised then that despite all the scientific studies and the warnings, for many, sun-love seems to be a litmus test New Zealand-love.
Why? New Zealanders, so another myth of our national identity goes, revere the outdoors. After all, we have so much of it, and it's of superior grade. The world knows. To an American, the revelation that one is not as per appearances a well-educated, sober Australian, but in fact from here is invariably greeted by the exclamation, 'But it's so beautiful!'
It is, and given that Mr Death, shining up there in the sky, dominates nature, He's part of that package.
Given that it hoses down here for much of the winter, it's often nice to see Him.
But given that He reliably kills those who worship and love Him, isn't it time someone expressed their patriotism by other means, say staying indoors, remaining pale and (hopefully) interesting, and tapping out this heretical blog?
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