I looked like an oompa loompa with botched lip-fillers after seriously misjudging the weather on holiday in France. I should have known better than to rely on the forecast on my phone. If I’d just popped my head out of the window and sensed a rise in the mercury I could have saved myself a red face in more ways than one.  

But google showed a row of clouds with rain drops, so instead of our usual routine of breakfast, sunscreen, sea, we swapped the factor 50 for cagoules and planned to cycle into town. Once outside though, we were so surprised to see le soleil, that we biked straight to the beach – where I nodded off, face up, chin down.  

That evening, my skin was so tight that I could barely stretch my mouth wide enough to slip in a solitary moule mariniere. My daughters couldn’t focus on anything I said because my massive bottom lip was so distracting, not helped by the fact that to avoid any cracking issues, I’d liberally glossed it with coconut oil, creating a mirrored sheen. 

At La Rochelle airport the next day, security staff couldn’t contain their snickering as they confiscated my only bottle of after sun because it exceeded 100ml. In a small act of mercy, I was allowed to hurriedly lather as much as I could on to my bouche before they tossed it in to the clear bin bag. The passport control man at Leeds Bradford wasn’t any better – his eyebrows shot up when he looked from photo to face.   

But after a cool shower back home and much concealer, I just about managed to convince myself that I looked okay. Yes, I could probably get away with it in low-light at the birthday party I was heading to just four hours after touch-down. But no. All night, people kept warming their hands on my face, openly wondering aloud if I had in fact been on the same holiday as my husband who, no matter where we go in the world, only manages to change colour from Dulux’s brilliant white to Farrow & Ball’s wevet.  

Most revellers at the bash were guzzling Aperol spritz in massive gin goblets, but such was the hue of my boatrace that if I’d had one, it would have looked like I was holding a second head on a small stake. So I stuck to Muscadet, making it tres classy by adding ice then rolling the glass soothingly along the perimeter of my mouth. It didn’t help. As the night wore on, my satsuma face morphed into a Santorini tomato and by bedtime I was checking the flammability of my pillowcases.  

The swelling has calmed down slightly now though, following a few heavenly days of British drizzle. I’ve checked the rest of the weeks’ forecast and it’s looking mixed but I’m not taking any chances. My usual moisturiser has been upgraded to a high-end serum and I’m going to wear a wimple and sombrero until Christmas.