It was unfortunate:

My last day in the sun.

Not to be beaten

By the unexpected summer rays,

I rushed to the beach

And allowed the sun to gaze

Full in my unprotected face

With only the ozone layer

And ninety three million miles of space

To protect me.

No sun cream here:

I soaked up the photons

On Factor Zero.

No-one would claim they had more time in the sun than me.

But, later, back at the hotel.

Delighted I hadn’t been beaten.

I was mistaken at dinner for beetroot.

And unceremoniously eaten.