|The churchyard at St Firmin's church in Thurlby|
And then there were the nights . . .
As I wrestled with my sheets, I was reminded of my grandmother's mantra: Ladies do not sweat, they glow. Men apparently perspire. It's left to horses and other beasts of burden to actually drip salty water. Or something like that.
Anyway – despite my brother's evil prognostications that it couldn't last – the weather was so blissful, I actually packed away my winter pyjamas – the ones with the colourful sheep on that I love so much.
I even pulled out all my summer gear – shorts and t-shirts – and went so far as to wash them. Clothes tend to get musty, crumpled for nine months in storage boxes.
(Is it really so long ago that the sun generated enough heat to be discernable on this soggy patch of planet Earth? Ah, well, let us not dwell on such gloomy thoughts . . .)
During that glorious interlude of sunshine and warmth, I actually managed to glow onto two pairs of shorts and two t-shirts.
Incessant bloody rain.
Piddling down like there's no tomorrow.
All it needs is a howling gale and this could be Cape Town in mid-winter.
They – the eternally optimistic English (did I mention how irritating all that positiveness can be?) – tell me all is not lost and we may still get another couple of warm days before Autumn set in . . . in September.
I'm not holding my breath. All Hail The English Summer!
So, wherever you are, enjoy what the elements are flinging at you. It cannot be worse than the deluge we're having.
PS. Don't be shy to comment. Despite my acerbic humour, I don't bite. Much.