Ouch ... followed by a string of expletives not suitable for a family website.

Now I know what an overcooked steak feels like as it sizzles on the barbecue. Sore.

I am not a pretty sight (and no smart comments please). My skin colour has been transformed from pallid white to livid pink, embellished here and there with peeling red bits.

Thanks to a pair of sunglasses, however, the area around my eyes has remained white so I currently resemble a plump, furless panda with a shining nose that would rival Rudolph's.

The Mother is furious. "How many times have I told you to wear suncream/sun hat/a long-sleeved T-shirt when you go out in the sun?"

"Hundreds, thousands, millions of times," I mutter between cracked lips.

"You've only yourself to blame," she scolds as I wince and whimper.

I'm in too much discomfort to argue, to tell her I've no intention of blaming her, or anybody else, for my current predicament.

Of course I should know better than to expose my unprotected fair, Anglo-Saxon skin to the unforgiving rays of an August sun. But I was only in the back garden for an hour, m'lud.

I sit in a bath of cool water and gently rub ice cubes on my scorched arms and legs.

"What I need is some aloe vera gel - I've read it's very good for sunburn," I tell The Mother after I've gingerly patted myself dry.

Later that afternoon, when the sun's rays are less fierce, I go to the chemist's shop.

I ask for some aloe vera - cream, lotion, gel, anything.

"Aloe vera?" says the assistant. "That's excellent for sunburn you know." Yes, I tell her, that's exactly why I want some.

"Sorry," she says. "We're out of stock right now but we're getting some more in tomorrow."

It's too late to find another chemist. I return home, my skin by now prickling and smarting.

The Mother looks at me pityingly. "You look terrible," she says. "I only hope you don't feel as bad as you look."

Then, before we go to bed, she warns me about the dangers of sunburn and skin cancer.

"But do try and get a good night's sleep," she says finally, shutting her bedroom door.

I'm not counting on a good night's sleep, which is just as well as I don't get one. The skin on my shoulders and chest is too sore for me to lie flat and my face feels as if it's been rubbed down with sandpaper.

I get two extra pillows for my back and spend the night sitting up - except when I'm not in the bath.

Shortly after midnight, and feeling as if someone has torched my legs, I run a tub full of cool water. When I sink into it I almost expect the water to sizzle.

Although I try to be quiet, I wake The Mother, of course.

Why do people have to ask the most obvious questions? "What are you doing now?" she says.

I pretend not to have heard.

The following morning I return to the chemist's shop. Deliveries have just been made and among the packages are tubes of aloe vera gel.

Back home I smooth the gel on to my face and over my arms and legs. Almost immediately I can feel the pain subsiding. Aahhh, bliss.

Later that day I overhear The Mother on the phone, discussing my sunburn with one of her friends.

"She's a lot better now," I hear her say. "And it's all thanks to this Hello Vera ..."