As mentioned elsewhere, this is a ‘Phew! What a Scorcha!’ Of a week. Records of this and that and the other kind are likely to tumble. I’m going to try and stay indoors and out of the heat. I may fail to sleep, too, which won’t improve my levels of tolerance. I’ve tried the pan of ice cubes in front of the fan and the underpants in the freezer but nothing really works. It’s just gross, exhausting and, in truth, just not very British. We like middle of the road, humdrum, a bit dull in everything, including our weather. We’re an overcast sort of race, mostly beige or grey. We do tints, not primary colours. We don’t revolt; we moan. Our national anthem has one merit: it’s short. But the highest temperature ever recorded deserves more than a half-hearted whinge. It deserves a very large
There. That’ll learn it.
I’m always saddened when I see somewhere I’ve taken to fall apart. In this case, Sri Lanka. It really is a delightful country and our long holiday there ten years ago was terrific. Now it’s in turmoil and while the existing government sound like they are well rid, I hope whatever comes in in their place is better and not some equally or worse excuse for a bunch of grasping mealy-mouthed charlatans. And on the subject of the current leadership election for the Tory party that will give us a new PM…
…I note that the decision will be made by the current members of the Tory party, some 200,000 people.
I’m firmly of the view that anyone who thinks it worthy of spending their hard earned on joining a political party is probably the sort of person who should not be allowed a vote. Leaving that to one side, who are these self-identifying worthies?
According to the latest research they 63% male, 39% over sixty-five, 76% in favour of Brexit and 42% unlikely to have an IQ. So that’s all good then.
I’ve been helping the house sitter next door with some dog walking. I’m not sure he quite realised how much of a handful is Sarana and that, coupled with his erratic shifts have seen me being dragged by this delightful if somewhat headstrong hound to the nearest park. The one feature I hadn’t really considered the first time we went was the, erm, volume of her relieving delivery. I’m pretty dextrous with a poo bag, but when confronted by topographically accurate representation of the Eiger in post digested pigmeat, my spacial awareness is tested towards destruction. At least I know for sure that all future dogs will be of the medium sized variety.
While on the subject of pets, the Dowager has been sunning herself on our frazzled lawn. Tipsy, the ingenue and perceived threat has had to develop a strategy of checking on the old girl’s sleeping patterns to avoid any unseemly confrontations when she pops out for a stroll. It’s admirable how spiky the Dowager is, though one does worry that her determination to make her point, all furled umbrella and hat pins to the fore, like a feline Maggie Smith might be doing her not much good. Still, for one so congenitally indolent as Nutmeg, to go our in a burst of splenetic fury might be considered a worthy end.
My Nephew lives with is wife and daughter in Singapore. Like me, he has a penchant for all things Tintin. He also does some part time work in a Tintin shop. Yesterday he sent me some images of the latest displays. I have no idea why I feel the urge to ask him to wrap up and send me a couple of trinkets. Reliving my youth? Addled brain caused by heat and age? An urge to waste my savings on fripperies? Probably just Sad Male Syndrome.
Anyway, I already have a rocket…