Yay! Hi there, all you lovely people. Summer in England.
Week-end hot enough for you? If you live in the South of England, then this week-end was a corker. Further north, not so amazing. Even the sun wasn’t that amazing for some of us. The whole summer has been a catalogue of grey skies, pouring rain and flooding, still continuing in parts of the UK.
And now we have had some sun, some really hot sun, none of us are used to it.
People have been moaning about the heat, yes, that’s right, moaning.
They say, it’s been too much. Me? I keep quiet. I have to admit that I’m not a great one for the heat anyway. Cloistered away with my computer, I prefer to be a little chilly, my trusty beige cardie sufficient to keep me at an even temperature. (Regular readers may have come to know the disreputable beige cardie is my garment of choice when the weather is cool. No, I am not a beige person. I am not a cardigan person either. I am a writer. Leave me to my foibles). Yesterday was not the weather for cardigans, beige or otherwise.
Here in Suffolk, the temperature gauge hit 32. That’s degrees Centigrade. That’s 89.6 in Fahrenheit. Yes, I know, a lot of the world lives in temperatures in excess of this for most of the year, but here, my heating has been trying to click in at about 15 degrees for most of the summer and when the temperature doubles virtually overnight, you tend to notice. A lot.
When it’s warm, I take my little laptop and retreat to The summer-house. I add the capital letters because this is how my husband refers to it. Others have more disparaging titles. The Shed being the principal one. In conversation, I call it The summer-house too. In my head, This is Mine. I have filled it with old, but nice furniture (OK, the table has a hole in the top, but it’s under a pretty oilcloth, so you can’t see it. And there is an old teacher’s desk (no, not a new desk belonging to an old teacher, get real). Sloping top, place for inkwell and quill, you know the sort of thing. A cross-backed high stool so I can reach the desk. Some comfy chairs with squishy cushions. Pictures, fans, candles, a pretty rug, muslin curtains to keep out the buzzies and bities, two nighties… What?
Two nighties. That’s right. Doesn’t everyone have nighties in their summer-house/shed? They are Victorian, white and lace-encrusted, and they hang in the window with two functions: they look pretty and they act as extra curtaining. I thought of taking photographs, but I’m a writer, writing is telepathy, read my mind.
But the nighties are not working and nor is the summer house. Because it is too sunny and too hot. My paints were out there in that desk and when I brought them in yesterday, I had to put them in the fridge, they were so hot. If I’d been working out there, I would have been fried to a crisp in ten minutes. Possibly a little less. Still relegated to the cupboard then, from which I really do need to escape if I am not to be gifted with a permanent crick in my neck.
So the warm weather has been driving everyone mad. How long before the moans begin about the rain and the chilly wind?
Ah, the great British Summer.