Friday 2nd August 2024
You know me. I’m not one to complain. (Quickly gags lie detector.) But to be honest, and I hate to say this, but it’s too fucking hot. I know, I know. I was whinging about it being cold not long ago, but it’s gone too far the other way now. My excuse is I’m English, and it’s my God given right to never be happy about the weather. The trouble with the weather over Blighty is that we never get the ‘good’ weather. We get ‘scrag end’ weather. The sun has worked its socks off, beaming here, there and everywhere. It’s done Europe, and then hopped on the Eurostar to pay this little Island of ours a visit. Extortionate ticket prices, overcrowding, rip off food prices and travel delays mean that by the time it actually arrives here it’s tired and cranky. It has no mellow left in it. We don’t get happy sunshine. We get malevolent rage-shine. Ginger people have to take refuge in dark cellars or risk being burned to a crisp. They daren’t even stand by a window for fear of scorching. It’s also impossible for anyone to sleep because of soul-sucking humidity. There’s just no balance. In the quasi mansion, we all end up in separate bedrooms, because it’s the only way to avoid death by sweaty overheating and rampant bad temper. In turn, that means my laundry load is trebled, and I’m almost longing for winter again.
To be fair, when the sun first, finally, hit my portion of Blighty, I was so happy I leapt out into the rain free garden and did a jig, before launching into a gardening frenzy. I wasn’t the only one. An orchestra of lawn mowers and strimmers could be heard up and down the street, as everyone took advantage of this miraculous parting of the clouds. Ugly rain sodden gardens were soon beautiful again - especially mine. My lavenders are spectacular at the moment. I’m a hero to bees. They bloody love my lavender.
The men folk also welcomed the arrival of the sun with open arms and much relief. Dick was considering moving back to the ancestral pile, and Shane was on the verge of strangling me with his bare hands because they were sick of my carping and complaining about the wet stuff. Rain wasn’t the only source of friction. Shane and me had a big falling out on the night of the Spain/England match, and things were a bit tense between us until it got resolved. In retrospect, I can see I was overdue some strict Daddy attention. We might all be a bit older now, but our dynamic remains as strong as ever. It’s who we are.
Dick’s birthday has just passed and with it being a workday it was kind of low-key. However, we’re going away tomorrow, for a week, and will celebrate it properly at Leo’s cottage in the Lake District. The downside is that Leo will be there too, but never mind. He’s recently had the cottage and its garden overhauled, and been a bit secretive about it. I’m looking forward to seeing exactly what he’s had done, and also looking forward to giving him my ‘expert’ opinion on how he could have done it better.
Before I toddle off to do some sorting and packing, I’ll have one more moan. Sport. You can’t get away from it this year. We’ve been subjected to darts, rugby, football, horse racing, cycling, golf, cricket, tennis and now the blah blah Olympics. Frankly, I’ve lost the will to give a fuck about who wins what. Shame there isn’t a category for lavender growing. I’d win gold for sure (he bragged, without any modesty whatsoever.) Mind you, I’d come last in the allotment class. :(
Ciao for now, peeps, and I hope all is well in your personal portions of the planet. X
You know me. I’m not one to complain. (Quickly gags lie detector.) But to be honest, and I hate to say this, but it’s too fucking hot. I know, I know. I was whinging about it being cold not long ago, but it’s gone too far the other way now. My excuse is I’m English, and it’s my God given right to never be happy about the weather. The trouble with the weather over Blighty is that we never get the ‘good’ weather. We get ‘scrag end’ weather. The sun has worked its socks off, beaming here, there and everywhere. It’s done Europe, and then hopped on the Eurostar to pay this little Island of ours a visit. Extortionate ticket prices, overcrowding, rip off food prices and travel delays mean that by the time it actually arrives here it’s tired and cranky. It has no mellow left in it. We don’t get happy sunshine. We get malevolent rage-shine. Ginger people have to take refuge in dark cellars or risk being burned to a crisp. They daren’t even stand by a window for fear of scorching. It’s also impossible for anyone to sleep because of soul-sucking humidity. There’s just no balance. In the quasi mansion, we all end up in separate bedrooms, because it’s the only way to avoid death by sweaty overheating and rampant bad temper. In turn, that means my laundry load is trebled, and I’m almost longing for winter again.
To be fair, when the sun first, finally, hit my portion of Blighty, I was so happy I leapt out into the rain free garden and did a jig, before launching into a gardening frenzy. I wasn’t the only one. An orchestra of lawn mowers and strimmers could be heard up and down the street, as everyone took advantage of this miraculous parting of the clouds. Ugly rain sodden gardens were soon beautiful again - especially mine. My lavenders are spectacular at the moment. I’m a hero to bees. They bloody love my lavender.
The men folk also welcomed the arrival of the sun with open arms and much relief. Dick was considering moving back to the ancestral pile, and Shane was on the verge of strangling me with his bare hands because they were sick of my carping and complaining about the wet stuff. Rain wasn’t the only source of friction. Shane and me had a big falling out on the night of the Spain/England match, and things were a bit tense between us until it got resolved. In retrospect, I can see I was overdue some strict Daddy attention. We might all be a bit older now, but our dynamic remains as strong as ever. It’s who we are.
Dick’s birthday has just passed and with it being a workday it was kind of low-key. However, we’re going away tomorrow, for a week, and will celebrate it properly at Leo’s cottage in the Lake District. The downside is that Leo will be there too, but never mind. He’s recently had the cottage and its garden overhauled, and been a bit secretive about it. I’m looking forward to seeing exactly what he’s had done, and also looking forward to giving him my ‘expert’ opinion on how he could have done it better.
Before I toddle off to do some sorting and packing, I’ll have one more moan. Sport. You can’t get away from it this year. We’ve been subjected to darts, rugby, football, horse racing, cycling, golf, cricket, tennis and now the blah blah Olympics. Frankly, I’ve lost the will to give a fuck about who wins what. Shame there isn’t a category for lavender growing. I’d win gold for sure (he bragged, without any modesty whatsoever.) Mind you, I’d come last in the allotment class. :(
Ciao for now, peeps, and I hope all is well in your personal portions of the planet. X