Sunday, 17 July 2016

Heatwave...

Summer tipped up again yesterday, catching me completely unawares as I got dressed.  I had assumed that the sweat running down my face, accompanied by a generous helping of recently applied mascara, was down to another 'hottie' (these are happening more frequently, and the children and husband have taken to locking themselves in the bathroom every time, just in case I go the whole hog and lay into them with a rolling pin and spatula) but I soon realised that my thermal vest and Arran sweater were to blame rather than my hormones, who, like Elvis, have left the building.

This meant a full clothing change into something more in keeping with the heat.  White jeans, (my staple summer wear), and a cream top.  Sorted.  I always have a problem with summer clothes, never quite having the right top to go with the right trousers.  I put this down to the fact that the British summer lasts a cumulative 47 minutes, which doesn't justify buying lots of different things.  So stuff comes out from under the bed from last year, is washed, ironed and hung up, in the vain hope that one or two items might make it out of the wardrobe, before being stuffed back under the bed again around mid September when the monsoons, hurricanes and blizzards return.

So suitably cooled down (must buy myself one of those battery operated fans to stick in my handbag)  I headed off for my usual Saturday breakfast with Miss R and Mrs W.  The older pair of siblings were missing this week.  Mrs Jangles was living it up in the fleshpots of Woolacombe for the weekend.  She'll probably be finishing off a cheeky glass of red with her breakfast as she reads this.  That woman has no shame.

The mother has gone to Wales.  Now, I did try to warn her off this idea, reminding her that my trench foot had only just started improving after the amount of rain we had when there a couple of weeks ago.  But she's made of stronger stuff than me (that's what living through the war does for you) and is well prepared for whatever Wales has to chuck at her.  However, they did stop at rather a lovely hotel in Chester en route to 'break the journey'.  The husband usually gives me ten minutes to get a coffee and go to the loo when we stop at the motorway services on a long trip.  I have made a mental note to speak to him about this...

My father, I'm going to call him Sandy (because that's his name) came into breakfast yesterday having lost at golf again.  This is a regular occurrence, and to be honest, myself and Miss R are only being polite when we ask who won.  Everyone around the table knows exactly what the answer will be...even he isn't surprised any more.  I think I would have given up years ago, but he also is made of sterner stuff than me it would appear.

So heading back home after breakfast, I was almost giddy with anticipation of putting my shorts on, for some serious deckchair time.  Having got myself sorted with sun cream (it took me ten minutes to decide whether to risk factor 10, or just play safe with factor 25), a cup of tea, and some soft music, I tilted my little face up to the sun like an expectant sunflower looking forward to the warm glow on my cheeks.

And then the sun went in...and stayed in...

Bloody typical...
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