Updated: Aug 28, 2019
Well you're a contrary lot, aren't you? Yesterday I posted the teeniest weeniest blog ever, apologised in advance and told you not to bother reading it, and twice as many of you read it as normal. Unless of course my mum has found her way to my blog and is now multiple-clicking on the same page repeatedly to get my hits up. Mum if it is you, stop it, you're not helping.
Anyway it's all starting to feel a bit real now, isn't it? September, I mean. Much as you try to ignore it, there's something in the air - a sense of inevitability and acceptance that our gloriously lazy and ditsy summer, despite doing its best to have one last late fandango, is about to get its marching orders. Sensible September is polishing its regulation black shoes, ironing its tie and preparing its welcome back speeches.
The shops have been full of 'back to school' stuff since July, but that's easy enough to ignore, most supermarkets are running some sort of 'back to school' line throughout the year, but today I saw a restaurant advertising its Christmas menu. 'Book now', it said, 'to avoid disappointment'. I mean come on guys, it's 29 degrees, it's too hot to sleep and we're wearing sunglasses. Not even those annoying people who are already half way through their Christmas shopping aren't thinking about the office Christmas dinner yet. Back off, it's too soon, we haven't even said goodbye to summer yet, let alone gone through the 5 stages of rief we need to experience before we can think about Christmas.
But wait, stage 1 is denial and isolation. Maybe I'm already in it! Summer is over and everyone knows it but me? Nope, I'm not having it, and until it says September on my calendar, I am officially staying in full summer mode, complete with fake tan, bad hair and Birkenstocks.
So we're clear then, it's summer. Good.
Husband and I popped to the supermarket earlier and as we got in the car I realised we were wearing the exact same colour outfits. The true horror of this didn't dawn on me until I looked in a shop window and saw that we resembled one of those couples with the matching cagoules, only his and hers version with a jaunty pink stripe on hers and a macho blue stripe on his. It was too late to go home again, so I had to walk on the opposite side of the street to him, to avoid being taken for one of 'those' couples.
Husband, of course, didn't have the faintest idea what was going on, so kept crossing over the road to join me on my side, meaning I then had to cross back over to his side again. One elderly gent kept trying to make eye contact with me to make sure I was OK and that the confused-looking man following me wasn't going to be a problem. I ducked into a cafe to give him a sense of ease. Of course husband followed me in there, but I found a dark corner and hoped the clientele was colour blind.
I decided to get my own back in the car park though, for the following thing. As he was pushing the trolley I scuttled off ahead of him to the car and hopped into the driver's seat, giving myself a good minute or so advantage. As he opened the boot to load the bags in, I opened the windows and shouted "Oi, get away from my car", "this isn't your car, I don't know you", "where's your carer" and "OK, just close the boot ,walk away and I won't go to the police".
He ignored me, sighed, deeply, and didn't even blink when I drove off without him when he went to put the trolley back (I did pick him up from the trolley park though, honest).
No one came to help me though, not a single good samaritan came to my aid, which is, quite frankly, shocking. Husband suggested it was possibly because of my guffaws of laughter and very bad geordie accent, but that's just an excuse.
Later, back home, daughter and I were wilting in the late afternoon heat, in the manner of 2 edwardian ladies. We lacked the requisite period outfits, the finely crafted musical and artistic talents, the polite decorum and ability to embroider, but we definitely wilted, and not without an element of sighing and eyelash fluttering.
"My bedroom is intolerably warm, Papa" said daughter, "I feel quite certain that I might simply faint if there is no respite by nightfall". Well, that's what it sounded like in my head. What she actually said was "Urgh, it's totally too hot and I need a fan in my room, can you go buy me one?".
To which Papa replied "there's a spare one in the shed". IN THE SHED!!! It's the 27th August, it's been 30 degrees for like a week, it's the hottest August since, I dunno, ever, no one has slept, the pets have taken on liquid form, and he decides to tell us, now, that there is a spare fan. In. The. Shed.
After the screeching had died down I asked him why he hadn't thought to mention that fact before, to which his response was, almost inevitably, and with a genuine innocent puzzlement, "you never asked".
The case for the prosecution rests m'lud.