The house is built neither for the cold nor the heat, and neither am I. Like most people that I know from a celtic bloodstock, I have a very limited temperature range for optimal performance, somewhere between 20-25C.
Much lower the 20C and I start to complain about the cold. Higher than 25C and I start to whimper.
We have had a week of unreasonably high temperatures by British standards. The dry spell has continued but we’re now faced with early morning temperatures of 25C rising to 30C by mid-day. Around midday we wander around closing the blinds to the west of the house in a vain attempt to keep out the sun.
I’ve taken to splashing down the patio just outside the back door in the forlorn hope that evaporation might make a difference.
The kids start arguing about who has the use of the portable air-con unit at around mid-afternoon and it never, ever sees to make it into my bedroom. At the same time, he insists on retaining duvet rights even when we’re clearly just lying on top of the damn thing sweltering.
One very irritating bird sings it’s heart out every evening and every morning. It would be beautiful and charming, if it didn’t start at 4am. Somewhere around 4:15, he starts muttering about closing the windows and I start threatening physical harm if he does any such thing.
The eldest is heading off to visit her girlfriend in Wales, a place currently looking at a balmy 20C maximum. A civilised sort of temperature.
Meanwhile the baskets are watered and the pots survive. Heat does not make for happy families but the garden is not dead yet though we’re living in hope of rain.