It doesn’t take much to fuck me off, but I do find some things are more successful than others at ratcheting me up to 100 on the Pissy Scale. (Copyright term, Ms Hush-Hush, 2008.)

Sadly God didn’t see fit to bestow me with an outer wrapping that turns golden brown the moment the UV hits. No, I was at the shallow end of that particular gene pool. Instead, I was to be found frolicking neck-deep in the puddle responsible for dishing out pale skin, dark hair and a vaguely rosy complexion. Stick on a pair of green eyes and what have you got? Irish colouring.

It’s not so bad; I’m sure the albinos have it far worse. Or indeed veal calves. I’m like the Asda version of the The Corrs (minus the minging brother), all rolled into one human. So far, so Maureen O’Hara. But then along comes the melted-fudge-mess of a London summer and fucks with my look.

I’ll be clear: I don’t do well in the heat. My face goes red and I sweat. I get pissed off and irritable. I don’t like people to touch me. I choke myself with excessive deodorant use and snooze at my desk when (I think) no one is looking. In short, the heat makes me envy all olive-skinned, non-perspiring goddess types.

But if my lot is to be pasty and tepid, then so be it. I can take it. Except for when certain people come right up in my sweaty and blotchy red face and say at the top of their voice:

“You’re really red in the face aren’t you? Why is your face so red?”

Then they peer at me with a mixture of disgust and pity, and the whole of London stops and stares in anticipation of my reply.

“Well, I don’t know but what is that green thing hanging down from your nose?” is what I did not say.

Confidence-withering fool, you ruin my day.