Confessions of a fake tan addict

When paramedics thought her orange-hued skin was jaundice, Aileen O’Reilly finally had to accept she had a problem...

I have a lot to thank Downton Abbey for – so much so in fact that each year when shedding the winter layers becomes an unavoidable probability I quickly watch it again and tell myself I will be strong... I WILL NOT succumb.

For the best part of two decades I was a fake tan addict. It was my love of the pre WW1 era that drew me to watch Downton and it was the swish of jet beads over silk and pale powdered skin that finally convinced me to hang up my tanning mit, put the tube of golden glory in the bin and embrace the elitist pale skin associated with the stranded gentry and their obscene wealth - my natural metier obviously.

Up to that point I must admit I’d been several shades more Benidorm than Belle Epoque.

I am by nature the kind of pale that makes x-rays a very speedy undertaking (me and a strong torch basically).

The kind that impels complete strangers to offer you their seat on the Luas with a concerned look and the beseeching prayer that you’re not going to either throw up or faint.

Also, unfortunately, the kind of pale that makes a white broderie Anglaise summer dress look like you’ve lost your mind and wandered in to town in your granny’s nightie.

At least I’d always had the sense to eschew sunbeds in favour of self tanning lotion – but there any sense of restraint ceased.

For some people it’s the crack of the seal on a new whiskey bottle or that first heady draw on a freshly lit cigarette that does it.

For me it was the gentle squeeze of a golden brown glob of tan on to the mit before the pale, washed out visage greeting me in the early morning mirror was transformed into the happy, sparkling, sunkissed girl who could wear that white gypsy dress with sandals and a bright eyed, super white toothed smile.

Spontaneous downpours notwithstanding.

The wash off version was soon dropped in favour of “moisturising gradual tan” and I was hooked. Good Lord!!!! The Holy Grail had been achieved – go to bed pale, wake up like you’d just returned from the Seychelles overnight.

It was at this point, however, that I came asunder.

I quickly adjusted to my new bronzed look and became rather overzealous with daily applications. Not quite Hughie Maughan on Dancing With The Stars but not far off.

Nightmare maintenance ensued. I could no longer towel dry normally – I had to “pat, pat, pat” or I’d instantly turn piebald.

The arsenal of whitening products I needed to keep my underwear and those lovely gypsy dresses stain free was getting ridiculous.

All my bed clothes became orange streaked versions of the Turin shroud (cue exasperated eye rolling from blatantly disgusted boyfriend).

He threatened to ban me from staying over after he’d had to throw several bed sets out as the neighbour’s kids kept asking him if he was faking them for some online “shroud” scam when they saw them flapping on the clothesline.

I mastered the art of brushing my teeth with my mouth firmly closed as toothpaste, I quickly discovered, takes tan right off..

I brought a brolly EVERYWHERE.

Spontaneous well intended calls from himself to go to dinner (what? tonight?) led to panic as I saw several hours of scrubbing, moisturising and rushed tanning application result in me leaving the house looking, well, scrubbed and pale, as my colour hadn’t developed yet.

Instant tan wasn’t an option without studying the weather forecast and even then any hot food could cause some very unexplainable sweat marks in even more unexplainable places. – a cream summer dress had been ruined before thanks to the volcanic heat of an unanticipated curry... And who knew you could sweat fake tan off in large rings?

Don’t even get me started on the weird mouldy biscuit smell that let everyone know you’d been nowhere near the Seychelles.

My true downfall, however, came to pass one warm evening as I was applying yet another layer of gradual tan (just in case) prior to going out in a vivid green wrap dress.

I had been coughing a lot lately and waking up breathless during the night for a week or more but suddenly I started to shiver.

By the time my folks found me I was huddled under the duvet with my teeth chattering. Vomiting ensued and before I knew what was happening I was being bundled into the back of an ambulance by two paramedics who looked like they should have auditioned for Top Gun.

The darker haired one was studying me intently and I silently congratulated myself on my timely fake tan application which I was confident was paying dividends as I lay there swathed in white sheets and blue blankets.

“Has your daughter been drinking a lot lately?” the Tom Cruise lookalike asked my mum in a worried voice.

“This could be quite serious – we may be looking at liver damage. Has she been this colour for long?”

My mum, who had been looking haggard with worry suddenly took over eye rolling duties, grabbed a surgical wipe and ran it over my now aghast (and instantly piebald) face.

“It’s fake tan – she’s addicted to the damn stuff!”

Tom Cruise gave me the kind of pitying look one generally reserves for an incontinent puppy as he climbed into the front seat... and rather pointedly did NOT put on the siren.

I didn’t speak to my mum for a week after that... as it turned out I had pneumonia. But I was resolute.

And getting paler by the day.

Then, realising I was being ridiculous I rang her and we chatted.

She brought the “gear” in that night.

Well in fairness... hospital gowns and pale pink pyjamas just washed my complexion right out.

I’m ashamed to say my Downton Abbey conversion didn’t arise for a further eight years after that.