Sunflower Syndrome Kate Meyer-Curry

Sunflower Syndrome

Mid-July’s rising thermometer has brought the first sultry heatwave of sunflowers back to supermarket shelves. I first saw them this week as I sweated round Tesco after work. I envied them, dipping their toes in the bucket, as if they chilled at their local Lido. They were long and lean in high-cut chartreuse one-pieces, with stems for days. With their dirty-blonde tousled petals, they were ‘Fifties pin-up girls, fresh from a boardwalk photoshoot. Hand-picked by model-scouts, they had survived the killing fields of casting to make the final cut. Even under strip-lights their tight-pored permatanned faces were immaculate. They blanked me with their inscrutable Rayban stares, from behind shuttered eyes. I was a clumsy wildebeest eyed up by this blonde-maned lioness pride. Under their burning gaze, I felt photosensitive. My hand shielded my eyes from the radiant heat of their glare. Normally I’m drawn to sunflowers, but not today. I imagined how I’d feel facing their cool appraisal after a twelve-hour shift and I balked. I need to work on my summer body before I take that lot on.

Kate Meyer-Curry