Hot in the city...

The heat has finally got to me.

The last three nights have seen me in bed before 9.30 each night, dragging my feet up the stairs each night like a sulking seven year old who's been refused 'just five more minutes'.  The problem is that normal life has to go on, whatever the weather.  We still have to work, walk dogs, feed husbands and iron clothes (under duress).  We also have to pour the equivalent of the Pacific Ocean over our dahlias and hollyhocks each evening.  

Because of the risk of 'scorching' (this is a term which is bandied round at times of extreme heat and I've yet to learn whether it applies to the waterer or the plant) this watering has to be done after the sun goes down, which is approximately an hour after I start thinking about heading off to bed.  This is why you'll often find me in pyjamas and wellies in the back garden around 9.00, risking life, limb and antirrhinum to premature watering.  I have a devil may care attitude it would appear...

I'll be honest with you, to date there have only been two casualties in the garden (the names of which are a mystery) but I always base any decision in my garden on the life/death ratio.  Yes, I've lost two, but at least thirty are hanging on, which I consider to be a fair price to pay.

Plans for the first sojourn in the Wobble Box have been made, and if you're travelling down the M5 in late August, I'd like to apologise in advance.  However, very sensibly, the husband has decided that a shorter practice trip might be a good idea.  This would be one where we work out how 7 metres of aluminium is handled and then set up.  

At least if we do this, there shouldn't be any sniggering as seasoned caravanners watch us from behind their fly screens as we plumb the water tank into the gas barbecue socket.  We're also not going to take the dogs with us for the first few times.  I want to be absolutely sure of what we're doing before I inflict matching banquettes on them.  We're not even going to a proper caravan site to break our caravan cherry, preferring instead to park up on my the Father's drive for the weekend.

He's just going to love that.  We might even invite him round for a cup of tea and a slice of Vicky Sponge.

That's what proper caravanners do.  Isn't it?

Going back to the ironing though, I suggested to the husband that naked ironing might be the way forward in this heat.  Do you know what he said?

'Well you could iron out those crinkles on your stomach while you were at it.  On a low heat, naturally'.

I'll give him a bloody low heat...



Comments

Linda said…
Mr Bird is living dangerously isn’t he?

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