THROUGHOUT my life I have always been slightly envious of those who thrive in the late spring and summer months. The kind of folk who can navigate the rising temperatures with ease and somehow maintain an effortless chic.

They bloom, while I wilt. They gently saute, while I fry, eventually resembling an overcooked tomato left languishing on the breakfast buffet at a two-star hotel.

I’m talking about the lucky so-and-so’s able to function during milder spells of weather without looking like they are in the midst of a perpetual house flit. Unlike me, who from May until September, finds herself carting around an embarrassingly large collection of paraphernalia everywhere she goes.

Among this trusty arsenal is a Vera Stanhope-style bucket hat, a jumbo-sized bottle of high-factor SPF sunscreen, a vat of Avon Skin So Soft to ward off brutish midges and assorted plasters for potential sweaty blisters. And that’s me travelling light.

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On any given day I could also be toting deodorant, aloe vera lotion, three different pairs of sunglasses, Anthisan cream, a battery-powered fan, several litres of water and dissolvable tablets to replenish electrolytes. I have been known to brandish a parasol.

So, with all this in mind, you would think that after 46 years on this planet, I would know my limitations. However, yet again, I have found myself like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

Last weekend was glorious. A Saturday morning in Troon with my running friends to do a spot of parkrun tourism. Afterwards I met my mum, husband and dog for a walk on the beach, followed by some al fresco lunch on the patio of a coffee shop.

On Sunday, I went for a meander around the loch at Strathclyde Park. The fact there was a bit of a breeze both days had me lulled into a false sense of security.

Fast forward to Monday when I awoke sporting a mosaic of sunburn. There was a crescent moon-shaped streak stretching between my collarbones, perfectly charting the neckline of my T-shirt. A zig-zagging stripe up each forearm. My chin, meanwhile, glowed a radioactive beetroot.

Given it was only late April, this felt a tad inauspicious. So, if you need me in the coming months, I’ll solely be available for social outings that commence and conclude between the hours of 6am and 8am. The rest of the time, I’ll be brooding indoors like a Victorian lady-meets-vampire.

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I jest, of course. After the bone-gnawing winds and relentless rain of recent months, this year I’m giving myself a major attitude overhaul.

Rather than skulking in the shade, I’m determined to feel grateful for the warmth of every single ray of sunshine beaming onto my SPF 50-slathered face, as I focus on embracing a lengthy list of things that are good for the soul.

Such as cheerfully tallying the ever-growing minutes of daylight as we gallop towards the summer solstice in June. Or waking naturally with the early sunrise and joyous chirp of birdsong, as opposed to being jolted from my slumber in pitch darkness by a screeching alarm clock.

Being able to go for long walks in the evenings after work. Seeing the heart-soaring delight of trees coming into full leaf. Enjoying the fleeting, thick scented carpets of bluebells that line hedgerows and woodland floors.

Watching the starlings descend on my back lawn with their fluffy fledglings in tow. Reminding myself that a mouth-watering array of treats, including Ayrshire tatties, Hawick tomatoes and Fife/Angus/Clyde Valley strawberries, are only just around the corner.

Yep, the likelihood is that I will still be a scarlet-hued, perspiring shambles this summer. But if nothing else, it’s a vibe.