It's brown and sticky and hot and a bit gooey.........and it ain't no chocolate brownie.
We just aren't built for it, are we? As a nation, we are continually on the scout for a skive. Beast from the East? Too cold to be in the office and the tarmac on the driveway was just too lethal to get to work. Threat of two flakes of snow? Cancel the trains, close the schools and work from home for a week.
At school, somebody always had a thermometer in the winter terms to see if it was 'too cold' to be at school. If the teacher was more than 5 minutes late to a lesson, we all edged towards the door citing the 'rule' that after 5 minutes, the lesson was null and void. Train strikes see the entire Square Mile empty itself at 3pm and we have recently been known to be able to cash in on the phrase 'threat of localised flooding' to justify a sneaky skive. We all secretly hold out for the phrase 'only essential travel is advised'. Work, it transpires, is never essential although there's always that bloody nurse who walks twenty miles in the snow just to get to her shift and we all clap at her sacrifice during the news feature whilst secretly slagging her off for making us feel bad.
But what to do about the heat? Newspapers are quick to remind us that this might actually be the one situation that we can't fabricate a skive. Headlines scream out dire warnings of death and socio-economic collapse due to ice-cube shortages but they are quick to reiterate that there is 'no such thing' as a maximum working temperature. We're all a bit pissed off about it if we're honest. Collectively, we want to give that kid with the thermometer in their school bag a quick ring.
This unexpected Heatwave was initially welcomed but it has now evolved into that mate. You know, the one who you love dearly and who you're always pleased to see but who, after six hours in their company on a pretty massive Saturday night, becomes the most annoying dickhead on the face of the earth, starts a fight in the kebab shop and throws up in a taxi. When you dump them unceremoniously on their sofa, having hauled their drunken carcass home, you swear that it needs to be a long time before you see them again.
In all honesty, as a person of the ginger persuasion, I'd have waved this particular tropical event off at the Weatherspoons after pint #1 if I had a choice. I'd have abandoned them well before we got to the nightclub.
However, as I sit and sweat and wonder how long it will take the reservoir accumulating in my under-wiring to fill my sandals, I realise that I need to find the positives, lest I become even more of a Les Dawson caricature than I already am when anyone mentions the weather.
Reasons to be positive:
1) My palm tree.
We bought a fixer-upper nearly three years ago and we are now at the end of the world's longest and must unlucky building renovations (oh, don't worry, I'll bore you all with those little golden nuggets at some point). The house came with a gigantic palm tree out the front, which we have kept.
My husband initially confused the Palm Tree with Pampas Grass and worried for several nights that we were now occupying Swingers' Central. It was hilarious to watch him squirm but his relief turned into disdain and he threatens my palm tree with destruction regularly. I love it though. It looks ironic in the Winter, overdressed in the Spring, bold and cocky in the Autumn and then in hot weather, it is a massive botanical G. It owns the street, confident, gorgeous bastard that it is. Blue skies mean that when I look out of the landing window, if I squint, I could be in Ibiza......well, Ibiza Close, Surrey at least......
2) The lighting.
Because of the need to keep every window and frikking aperture in the building open to maximise the airflow, the house must be plunged into darkness at nightfall lest the local wildlife mount their multi-specied attack on the house and our delicate flesh. Moths like bi-planes. Mosquitoes who can drink pints of my precious RhNegative. Flies of indeterminate origin with buzzes like jet engines. Bats (we've all seen Derry.....those feckers are sneaky).
So as a result, we spend the hours from 9.30pm until midnight in absolute, Blitz-esque darkness. The TV is the only light we have which makes navigating the loo interesting.
The upside? Glowing TV light is pretty flattering. Him and me, we look almost presentable until somebody flicks that switch.
3) The lethargy.
The youngest child tires. He actually slows. He is eight and a force of nature the like of which people rarely encounter. This heat has acted like a slo-mo button. Absolute result.
4) The clothing
The usual game-play of summer is thus. Rain, drizzle, moaning, dampness, singular hot day arrives and EVERYONE TAKES THEIR CLOTHES OFF. On those rare sunny days, our eyeballs are assaulted by the entire ill-advised sartorial choices of our myriad-shaped fellow Countrymen ranging from 'Sweet Jesus did you not have a mirror?' to 'Well, I feel like I should have bought you dinner before I was permitted to see that'.
People go mad. Actually mad. They panic dress for the sunshine in a manner that can only really be carried off by those young and healthily-shaped enough to for the floaty summer clothes to actually float. For the rest of us, the bastards never exactly 'float' do they? They ripple pathetically before adhering themselves to sweaty skin and bunching up in a manner that often makes you look like you are entering some sort of Bavarian goat herding contest. I always aspire to waft in some sort of floaty, hippy playsuit. Instead, I just huff and throw on the leggings and paint-splattered Primark T-Shirt with the sandals that make me look like I strapped tires to my feet. Looking guuuud.
Anyway, my own vestiarial horror shows aside, this prolonged heat has allowed everyone to calm the chuff down. I am no longer terrified to walk into the shopping centre, lest I see something that might give me burnt retinas. People don't panic-strip this year because they know that they will get to wear their summer clothes again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day..........
5) The sitting.
People aren't moving much at the moment but God love 'em, they're reading. Some of them are even reading my book which demonstrates both bravery and fortitude as the mercury continues to rise.
It's now on Amazon for any other 'sitters' who want to occupy themselves as they await the return to our much missed and often denigrated drizzle and gloom
www.amazon.co.uk/Love-Punked-Nia-Lucas-ebook/dp/B07FRWWFHC/ref=la_B07FS69GX3_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1532627357&sr=1-1
Mind you, I'd kill for a bit of drizzle right now.......*gets in car and heads to see family in Wales*......
Oh yes, I almost forgot. Twitter got me. I dumped Instagram and like a sneaky little bastard, Twitter snuck in and pinched my arse, making me giddy........follow me here at:
https://twitter.com/BooksNia.
If I Tweet, does that make me a Twat? What is the correct term?
Well, if I'm a twat, then I'm a sweaty, ginger twat with a bloody massive Palm Tree. Night all x
