It’s hardly credible,
a very rare year,
but summer continues.
Temperatures in the mid to high twenties,
little or no rain except for the occasional thunderstorm,
bringing ever more sticky conditions,
and a garden which threatens to burst its borders.
There’s no way I am going out to work in it.
Garden gates are overgrown,
as do herbaceous borders.
Behind this window lies the coolest room in the house.
I am finding it very hard to keep my cool;
between lunch and tea it’s siesta time, and I do as little as I can.
High Summer is here with its languors and absence of stimulus; it's rather difficult in these drowsy, breathless days to keep the flag of high-minded culture and meaningful employment
flying strongly from Sleeping Beauty’s bower.
I realise that for many of you these would be pleasantly balmy days;
but do take into account that, in normal summers,
I wear rubber boots (wellies) and mackintosh,
and that a run of weeks of good weather
is an enormous shock to the system.
complaining about the weather is the national sport.