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The Age of Sunbathing occurred after my parents’ generation, swathing themselves in skin-protecting clothes, preferring shade, under parasols, erecting arbours and gazebos, admiring complexions they called English Rose. My peer group wanted tan, minimal swimming gear, laughed at sunburn, peeling skin, joked about the midday sun. So we baked by pool, ocean, riverbank - on exhibition our full-length narcissism - brow, back, chest, thigh, tum, bum. Walking the park this hot summer I see few fanatic tanners, yet shopfronts nearby say: you’re safe in our suntan studio. Sun Tan City, Desert Sun, Tropical Tan on Queen Anne (that’s a hill suburb near me in Seattle). There’s Rainglow Airbrush Tanning, Cactus Club Tanning! (ouch?) - red light therapy, the Ergoline tanning bed - while warnings come against binge tanning, skin damage, melanoma. I asked my doctor, told my story - Celtic genes from furthest north - sunbaked Kiwi turned Aussie. The two top skin cancer countries! Zap with the liquid nitrogen against my suspect bits of skin! Take that BCC to the surgeon! Cryotherapy or the knife! He puts my ear to sleep - hold still - not many stitches. Wear a hat, sunblock, stay indoors, stay well.