This week my husband came home from visiting his mum in Scotland with a suntan. You can bet it led to many questions about where he had actually been. "A suntan? From Scotland?"

But in fact, I learned Scotland was just having the time of its life during the hottest day of the year. It was, my husband assured me, "taps aff" weather, every pavement was crowded with drinkers soaking up that sweet, sweet Vitamin D, and he was enthused about the city full of bubbling promises of a good summer ahead.

Of course, unlike my Swiss-raised husband, I grew up in Scotland. I know the shadow side of these rare sunny days. No, you will not get a lovely suntan, but turn the same livid pink as a 1980s prawn penny sweet after an hour in the sun. Yes, it’s all fun and games while you're enjoying your third spritzer in your new summer dress patterned with some sort of citrus fruit. But after a day and a half, we all know it is the social if not legal contract of all Scots to retreat home, complain about how hot it is, how Scotland has no air conditioning and blame climate warming.

I am, true to my Scottish genes, a mess in the heat. During a trip to Florence last year in August, I reacted so strongly to the sun that my face blew up like I’d done five rounds with Ken Buchanan, despite my broad "I’m a perimenopausal Scottish woman" straw hat and slathering on enough sunscreen to resemble a mime artist.

Read more by Kerry Hudson

And it seems I’m not alone........

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