I was going to write a thoughtful post about how we need to change the narrative in terms of the way we speak about things like rape, and terrorism, and I may still do this, but today I would, whilst acknowledging the news is still terrible to despairing, like to complain about the heat.
This is within my constitutional rights as a lard skinned Englishwoman, and I will not be denied.
God damn it. This weather is terrible. Just terrible. I’m not even pretending to be grateful about the heat any more. I don’t care if it makes me look like an ungrateful churl who spends all her time moaning about it being too hot or too cold. I AM an ungrateful churl. I am an ungrateful, sweaty churl who has spent all day doing jobs for five minutes before abandoning them to slither off in a puddle of my own sweat.
It is just too much.
If I try to sand the doors in my garden (I have a fence made of recycled doors), I literally leak from every orifice after about four minutes, which makes dealing with power tools reasonably problematic, and means that all the sawdust sticks to me like glue. If I try to paint, the paintbrush starts slithering around in my hand. I’m not even going to attempt the digging and gravel laying that needs doing.
My hydrangeas are keeling over, and I have to keep going out to give them a drink and plead with them not to die. I kill hydrangeas every, single year, but I really thought this year would be different. Now, maybe it won’t. I’m doing a lot of hydrangea based praying.
Everything is sticky. Bleurgh.
I am particularly exercised about boob sweat. Boob sweat is, in my opinion, the worst sort of sweat you can have. It wells up. It sits in pockets, trapped under the boob, or soaks into the bra and makes it wet and itchy and just horrible. It rolls between your boobs onto your belly and then drips from the overhang (I have belly overhang – it’s a thing) in horrible rivulets. It constantly reminds you that you have belly overhang. It makes you feel like you are leaking, pendulously, rhythmically leaking, like a punctured wine skin.
I had to go out today to do some jobs. Because of sweaty bra rash, I opted for the devil may care, no bra plan. I am a woman of a certain age, with fairly large knockers for my frame. It is not advisable for me to wander about sans bra in public. I decided it was worth the risk. I’m too old/menopausal to be cat called any more, and if I cause someone to shudder in despair I decided I would just look them bravely in the eye, wave my finger in their face and say: ‘Think on!’ in a wise way before heading for the hills, safe in the knowledge that I don’t really care any more.
I put my floatiest sundress on in the hope that the billowing fabric would a) cause a breeze, b) hide the bosom disaster area. Then I put on an enormous sun hat, which I hoped would add to my camouflage activities and sallied forth.
I was aiming for a kind of Joanna Lumley wandering through a rose garden with a carefree, artisan trug in one hand and the other languidly cupping the roses. What I got was a really itchy, sweaty head from the hat, and a harried expression from having to navigate with a ridiculous hat and flip flop combo. Also, the Joanna Lumley look doesn’t really translate well in the DIY aisle of Wilkinsons while you’re trying to wrangle two, five litre paint cans and some cut price toothpaste into a shopping bag that is clearly too small.
I managed to cool off slightly when I got home. I sat in the swing chair in the garden, idly musing on life, the universe and everything, and feeling myself sweat through the wicker effect plastic weave.
Then there was some unholy squawking from the bushes, and Derek emerged triumphant with the most stupid baby blackbird in existence. At this point, the blackbird parents started crashing about and shrieking in the tree tops, the children started yelling and Derek dropped the bird. At this point, I rather hoped it would fly off, but no, it was too bloody stupid to do anything but sit there looking amazed. Derek also sat there looking amazed, and I was forced to leap into action.
I caught the bird, corralled the cat in the kitchen and then put the bird down, hoping it would finally get the whole ‘fly or be eaten’ situation it was in. Nope. It sat there, with it’s wide, baby bird mouth, cheeping and looking bewildered. So I picked it up again, climbed up the fence, and deposited it in the nearest tree, where it sat for the next ten minutes, still cheeping and sitting, sitting and cheeping. Then I went inside to console Derek, who was furious at being denied something she didn’t really understand, except that it just wasn’t fair.
By the time I got back outside, the bird had thankfully gone. Hopefully not into the mouth of another cat, to appear dead on my decking later on, whereupon we will almost certainly have to have a bird funeral, because that’s the way we roll.
I sat there musing on my life, sweating and sweating and sweating and thinking about the fact that I bet Joanna Lumley doesn’t have to do this.