Praise you...

The webbing I have between toes two and three (it's a family trait) is proving rather useful in the current climate. They say (one day, 'they' will reveal who they actually are) that we are due a month's rainfall over the next 24 hours. Now I'd have no problem if it was Algeria's rainfall they were talking about, but as it's good old Blighty's, then I would imagine that wellies will be de rigeur over the next couple of days.  

But we shouldn't grumble really.  Apparently we're in for a mini heatwave come the weekend.  There will be people laid out in the parks on Friday lunchtime with their toes wriggling in the sunshine, as their sodden shoes steam gently beside them, all moaning that it's too hot.

You'll never hear me complaining that it's too hot.  I love the sun, and at the merest chance of it being warm enough to lose my vest, I'm in my deckchair, face upturned to the sky like a little sunflower. The husband compares me to a lizard.  I should say that this has no bearing on the state of my skin after years of sunbathing, nor do I have a longer than normal tongue.  I just love that feeling of heat on my skin and can sit for hours just dozing and listening to the birds/waves/pool filtration system (my least favourite as there is a good chance of small child disturbance through bombing etc). 

We're heading off on a family holiday in a few weeks (me, the husband AND ALL FOUR KIDS) and the weather is guaranteed to be hot enough to fry an egg on the pavement. Before any ne'er-do-wells reading this harbour thoughts about ransacking through my knicker drawer looking for valuables, please don't bother, as I have a lovely couple house and dog sitting for the week.  Going back to the egg frying, has anyone actually ever done this?  I don't know why I'm asking really, as I can't stand eggs, but it would be useful to know.

It's been eleven years since we managed to pin all four kids down to coming away with us. It's a bit of a last hurrah before they start settling down, and before we start getting so old that a weekend in the campsite down the road looks rather adventurous.  The best part of the week is that we're going to a rather famous club to watch someone even more famous doing a DJ set.  

The husband, whose music taste stopped circa 1976, isn't too keen on going, and is worried that he'll look out of place there.  I wonder if he's stopped to think about the middle aged bird on his arm?  The one with bingo wings, arthritis, dodgy knees, grey roots, a stubbly chin and who can't see further than the end of her nose.  

Yes, we will be the oldest ones there (by quite a lot I would imagine)  

Yes, the songs will all be new to us (humming might swing it)  

Yes, we won't know the moves (apparently just standing still and pointing at the sky frantically is sufficient)

But we'll be with our kids, and the embarrassment we cause them that night will more than compensate for the slight uneasiness at being there at all.

What fun...