It’s Open House at ours today.
By that, I don’t mean that we have had a constant stream of visitors to feed and
/ or entertain; rather that we have every door wide open so that whatever breeze there might be can flow right through the house. It is very, very hot and Mr B is definitely suffering. Big Time.
Having every door in the house wide open does have a few unfortunate side effects. Every so often an internal door slams shut, frightening the life out of us and causing Mr B to demand that I immediately find out what’s
happening. Everything’s fine, I keep reassuring him. With fingers crossed, just in case it isn’t, you understand.
The Youngest of the Darling Daughters
has helped me to source and order a tower fan which should be delivered tomorrow. We were spoiled for choice, indeed, and it was difficult to read between the lines of the product descriptions posted on-line. The customer reviews were, likewise, a mixed bunch
depending on whether the reviewer wanted a quiet fan; an easy to assemble fan; or a value for money fan. In the end we chose one which we felt had one major attribute destined to keep Mr B happy - a remote control.
As regular readers know, Mr B does love a remote control. He has remote controls for virtually every piece of equipment we possess; if one were available, he would love to have a remote control for
me. Fortunately nobody has invented such a gadget so it is still possible for me to wander at will in house and garden. And no more so than when every door is wide open...
It seems almost all my friends love the hot weather. This only serves to make me feel the Odd One Out. My favourite time of day at the moment is around 8.30 p.m. when the heat has cooled a little and I can summon up the energy to go out and water the
You are scandalised, I can tell - what am I doing watering the plants with the threat of a hose-pipe ban looming over us like the Sword of Damocles? In
my defence, I am using a watering can, not a hose-pipe and I have cut down the number of minutes I spend in the shower every morning from the four minutes recommended by the water companies to a mere two and a half minutes, so that I can spend the water I
save on the garden. I haven’t actually made an accurate calculation on litres expended on body versus garden so if anyone can provide me with a mathematical formula, I would appreciate it.
I do have a water butt which has been empty ever since the Trio of Rampaging Rascals last came to see us, when they spent a happy afternoon assiduously watering every plant in the garden, whether living or dead, weed or flower.
Mr B reminds me of this fact every time he sees me trot off into the garden to fetch my trusty watering can.
I do remember previous hot summers. That’s what
comes of reaching a Great Age - few experiences are completely new. A friend watching an England World Cup match in the company of three thirteen and fourteen year olds commented on how they could not fully appreciate the current level of excited anticipation,
never having experienced the despair of past tournaments. “If you can meet with triumph and disaster...” as good old Rudyard once memorably (and, possibly, accurately in England’s case though Time Will Tell) wrote...
There was, of course, the Great Summer of 1976, which coincided with a Ladybird Invasion. At least we don’t have ladybirds raining down upon us, I tell Mr B. “Not yet!” he responds
in his best doom-laden voice.
Apparently we may be in for another fortnight at least of heat-wave weather. Our new fan, when it arrives, will certainly earn
For the time being, we will be keeping Open House. Every waft of fresh air can be guaranteed an (extremely) warm welcome...