CLIMATE CLASH

Sarah-Kate loves the hot, but the Ginger runs cold!

So, summer is officially gone – may it rest in peace and come back fighting fit at the end of the year, if not sooner. Some felt it was too hot this season, but I crave heat like a hot cheese scone craves being slathered in butter, so I was in hog heaven. I guess I was an iceberg in my last life.

My constant search for warmer climes drives the Ginger crazy. He basically follows me wherever I go, turning off heaters, opening doors, sweating profusely and stripping down to his singlet and stubbies – not in a sexy way but because our temperature gauges are set at different levels.

I will be stretched out on a sun lounger by the side of the pool and he will be inside panting in the shade like an old dog. In fact, like our old dog. But when I jump in the water, I think it’s freezing and he thinks it’s a bath. It’s a wonder we’ve lasted this long.

I can’t begin to tell you how horrendous it is going to a tropical destination with him. Obviously, I adore his company and, boiled like a saveloy or not, he still does a magnificent job of taking care of me. But like a vampire, he prefers to stay out of the sun’s harmful rays – even at eight o’clock in the morning.

And like a cat, I am constantly seeking a sunny spot to curl up in so I can purr over a good book or a well-crafted cocktail. (I’m actually not a cat person, but it strikes me they may prefer an expensive red wine to a margarita.)

My sunscreen is a regular SPF 20, which I apply liberally because although I love the heat, I don’t do burning. The Ginger? My goodness, you need to see that man’s collection of lotions and potions in the flesh to understand what an axolotl he truly is. I swear one giant bottle reads SPF-INFINITY. He wears it like icing, several layers thick and sticky to the touch. And if I mock him, which, of course, I try very hard not to do (do I?), he snippily points out that he does have a “bronzing programme” – between the hours of 5.30pm and 5.40pm.

On occasions, he attempts to exhibit the results of this programme by hitching up his togs and pointing out the contrast in skin colour, but even with my glasses on, I can’t tell the slightest difference. And it probably doesn’t help that the gin and tonic is coming out my nose because I’m laughing so hard.

Of course, he will no doubt – as usual – have the last laugh. While I bask semiclothed in the sun, my skin, even with my sun protection factor, is working its way towards crocodile status. He, on the other hand, once sluiced of all unguents, has the epidermis of a freshly plucked peach.

Mind you, this makes him all the more irresistible to snuggle up to in the cooler months, when I need to harness his warmth. Without being slathered in slippery creams and gels, it’s far harder for him to escape my grasp. His loss, my gain.