Sunny Days.


If you are wondering where the heck I have got to in the past few days,  I will  tell you: three days ago the sun came a knocking on my front door  and we've been playing out ever since...

Lordy but it's hot! We English just aren't  used to it.  My silly little town  sprang a water leak on Saturday and up until   yesterday morning there was but a trickle in the taps. We stop each other in the street, and say "Oh isn't it awful? How are you supposed to get anything done in this weather?", then we laugh at ourselves and say "Shouldn't moan!", when quite plainly we are all too willing to have a minor hissy fit about cranky kids, and piles of ironing gone unpressed and our total inability to do anything other than close our eyes and worry about whether our babba is going to squirt us with that pig ugly water gun affair his misguided paternal Grandad bought him...

I am having a juice day. Glass after glass of blended blueberries, and mangoes and pineapple, with heart shaped ice cubes and a flourescent pink cocktail umbrella. It is a day for silliness, for water fights, and table top barbeques. For chatting to the neighbours over our garden walls and keeping the baby plastered in sun lotion. For eating strawberries and homemade chantilly cream, for catching up on my reading while Finley buries my plum painted toes in his sandpit.

For all of these things. And most of all for not dwelling on the fact that Mark has finally come clean and told me that he will be moving in with a woman he met in work any day soon.

Though it breaks my heart to say it, she is, of course, welcome to him.