Signing Off

And so the sun shines - out comes Factor 15; whiter than white skins (for some of us!); flip-flops and shorts.

Against all my doubts, this county of York-shire still sees the sun.

Thank goodness. The south had made me a Mr Softie, and I'm not talking about ice cream. Having said that, Yorkshire can still shock me.

Only the other day, I thought the Costa del Sol had emigrated north, but quickly realised that Norway's hailstones, Carolina's flash-floods, and the arctic circle's offshore breezes had also decided to visit. New job; new house, same old weather.

Actually, I rather like that Factor 15 stuff. As a male, I rarely get a chance to use 'moisturisers' - despite the plugging they get nowadays. I wonder what percentage has succumbed? So, the sun's a good excuse really.

Throw a bit all over (I can never rub it in properly) and, suddenly, 'wow'.

That's why women have had the upper hand come elbows, ankles and soles of feet. You know - all those 'cruddy' bits that look and feel really unsightly.

If only I wore sun cream all year round, they'd be as extinct as the T-Rex. Unfortunately, come September 1 - or perhaps even sooner in Yorkshire - my dinosarus-rex-like skin will return to a surface of moon-like qualities, and I'll relegate the bottles to the back of the bathroom cupboard until next year. I wonder how many men will admit to liking the smell too.

Believe me, ladies, it's nicer than male skin balms which always have to include that word 'musk'. If I wanted to smell musky, I'd go and sit with a few of the city museum's exhibits.

And if it's not musky, it's got to be citrus - I hate lemons - not that I want roses, impulsive flower bearers, or great big honking appley scents. Uh-uhhh.

But surely, in this era of excessive market research, the old perfume manu-facturers could get beyond men and musk. Talking of market research, I was stopped in the Coppergate centre the other day, by one of those eager-beavers.

They approach you full of inviting smiles, faces filled with such hope that you will agree to waste five minutes of your precious lunch hour - knowing the queue in the bank needs you, or your car park ticket is about to run out, or worst of all, Betty's is going to stop serving cinnamon toast.

Now, if anyone made a scent filled with the aroma of cinnamon toast, I'd buy the company twice over. I'd probably stink, but I'd die happy. Anyhow, the market researcher got me for an innocuous questionnaire about TV, of all things. I've fulfilled my ambition now: no recognition whatsoever. So perhaps York can give me it all - hailstones included?

This is my last column for the Evening Press, and it's been nice talking to you. Hope we do it again some time.

I'm off to Betty's for my cinnamon toast, the place where the paper and I started. Perhaps someone else with a cinnamon fetish will pick me up?

9/7/99

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.