Earlier this evening, and finally we’ve had some rain. I confess, I stuck my head out of the back door (which was open to try and get some breeze to break up the insufferable sticky heat). I’m currently still feeling uncomfortably warm, but hoping the bedroom, with both windows flung open, will be cooler. Erm, can you tell that, heretic that I am, I hate the hot weather? While colleagues check BBC Weather and exclaim ’28 degrees by Friday, yesss!’, I can be found groaning and muttering darkly about emigrating to Greenland.
Spike and I were away for the weekend, and this post was going to be called ‘A Secud Class Returd to Dottigham, Please’ in homage to that dreadful 70s ad for menthol-medicated <scary John Cleese-esque cut-glass accent> Tuuuunes (help you breathe more easily). I liked Nottingham. I saw the statue of Robin Hood and visited the beautiful gardens of the castle. Sadly I didn’t see, let alone shoot, any sheriffs*. But I didn’t stay very long because it was too frickin’ hot.
* Top Five Sheriffs of Nottingham:
1) Alan Rickman (swooon) in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves – ‘And cancel Christmas!’
2) Tony Robinson in Maid Marian and Her Merry Men – damn, that show was wasted on kid’s TV. It must be on replay somewhere?
3, 4,5) Err, can’t think of any more. I haven’t really thought this through …
Meanwhile, I’m working on sorting out all kinds of things – of which more later. But, since it’s weather-themed, one thing I have been doing is getting a ten-minute walk every day. Until this week, when I find myself thwarted by the heat. I’d quite happily walk if it didn’t mean boiling and sweating. If I could walk somewhere air-conditioned. I’m wondering how many brisk laps of my local Sainsbury’s I could do before either I’d done ten minutes, or I got spotted and ejected by security.
I have a feeling David Icke rode a bike, but I’m not entirely sure.