Going Gone Troppo

"What's wrong with your face?"

The often heard shriek of the horrified local on encountering a red faced, bemused and vaporous, perspiring Welshman.

It is a sad state of affairs when society's laws governing the hidden, reclusive nature of Freaks are loosened and the unbidden, unwanted ones roam free, a-glowing translucent crimson under the sun's steadfast, unyielding gaze.

The humid, moisture-laden air forces to the surface of pink skin steady rivulets, dripping droplets, spreading sweat stains, saturating the protective layer of clothing covering tender, soft white flesh.

Squelching flip flops squeek, soggy palms swing back and forth in an attempt to airate this overheating perspirant.

Gallons of water are consumed until distended belly cries 'no more!'

"Hi, my name's..." the words trickle away as the listener takes in the sight before them and, touching their own cheek as if through doing so confirming that what they see is actually real, utter:

"Your face.." they say, "it's.."

"Burnt. Yes. I've been in the sun."

"That's why you.. look so.." they lower their hand from their face to say "strange".

"Yes. That's why."

Heavy, damp air, a ball of fire in the sky and below it, treading the streets of Darwin, you will find, fanning his burdened, boiling face, in the shade of a magnificent Raintree, the melting Welshman of the Northern Territory.