I think I was nine before I’d worn sunscreen, which is shocking when you consider I have the pallor of a floured bap. We’d travel for days in cigarette-smoke-filled cars to boiling French campsites where a good time was measured by the redness of one’s limbs and the number of freckles emerging on one’s face. No one worried much about the sun in the 1980s, and I’m concerned that what we’ve learned since isn’t habitually put into practice (eight in 10 people worry about skin cancers, yet more than 72% of us still got burned last year).

I’ve been obsessive about protecting my children from the sun, not only because I don’t want them to burn, but also because I want them to see applying sun cream during warmer months as much a part of their daily routine as brushing teeth and washing hands (which I also have to nag them endlessly about, but still). And I’ve found that the product itself is crucial to my success. My kids (aged 11 and eight) make a fuss about anything smelly, greasy, sticky or visible, and wriggle away before I can sufficiently baste them.

No sunscreen replaces a good hat, though, and my children are never voluntarily without their Lucky Seven trucker caps, which they designed themselves online. They’re suitable for boys and girls alike, and fun to create, which encourages enthusiastic wear.