Summer holidays

It is very warm.

It is not as warm as it is in the rest of the world. Both Numbers One and Two Daughters are basking in temperatures hotter than this, but it is warm nevertheless.

I like warm. I am not inclined to grumble in the least.

I would not complain if Global Warming meant that it was this warm from May to October. Warm is lovely.

It was not very lovely this afternoon. I decided that Roger Poopy’s father had reached a state of overheatedness which needed to be addressed. He was not helping his own cause by wagging hopefully after Rosie the whole time, but he was terribly hot, and so I gave him a haircut.

This was horrible. For a start it involved wearing a black plastic bag over the top of all my clothes, and hair cutting in the conservatory, which was already very warm. This was because it is the only place with a table.

Roger Poopy’s father does not like having his hair cut.

He fought hard and silently, and I fought back, just as hard but with more swearing. I put my elbow in his throat and we wrestled.

He was having such a terrible time that he did a wee on the table. This did not make me feel any more benevolent towards him. Clearing up sodden, smelly dog hair is not at all a happy way of spending an afternoon.

In the end after an hour or so of activity that was more or less just mutual abuse, he was done, and escaped from the table to sulk on his cushion.

I was hideously, horribly miserable then. Even despite the plastic bag I seemed to have prickly dog hair in every hot, sweating crevice, and I itched terribly.

In the end, after disinfecting the table, I hurled my clothes into the washing machine and rushed upstairs for a cool shower, which helped very much.

It made me feel so much better that Mark, who had been picking the black currants in the garden, had one as well, so we were restored to cool tranquillity in time for work, which is where I am now.

It is very much quieter than last night. Last night was frantically, endlessly busy, and we heaved a huge sign of relief when it was done.

There was the usual summer-holiday rush of idiots, of course, the ones who come immediately to mind are the chap who had been to a wedding, got completely lost, and was found by me having staggered two miles in the wrong direction. He wanted to go to a guest house in Windermere but did not know which one. His wife had his mobile phone and so could not be contacted to ask, even had he known her phone number, which he didn’t. Worse, he had not actually been there and so could not describe it. All he had was a door code, which he planned to try on every guest house in Windermere until one let him in.

I wished him luck.

Another pair of young men went back to their guest house at three in the morning, only to find it locked. They were astonished by this, having expected it to remain open all night. I was surprised, because guest house owners usually give guests a key, but they explained that they had not actually checked in to the guest house, merely booked a room and were just turning up now in order to occupy it. They banged loudly on the door and yelled, but to no avail, and I left them settling down on the doorstep.

There were some girls who had spent all their money and imagined that I would be happy to take them home without charge for reasons of their personal safety. They were disgruntled to discover that I thought they were in no danger whatsoever and left them to walk.

There was a chap who wanted to be taken to a post code. I explained that post codes cover lots of space here and wanted an address, but he did not have anything so old fashioned, and so I imagine he must have walked as well. 

Summer holidays. How splendid they are.