I think that if you live in the Lake District you should be allowed to have a formal exemption from believing in global warming.
I mean, the weather is pleasant, I would go so far as to say, really quite pleasant, but it most certainly does not merit all the hysteria in the newspapers about everybody being fried in their sleep, and reams of rubbish advice about whether or not you should take your clothes off to go to bed in case you die.
I take my clothes off to go to bed, never having seen the point in getting a bedtime set of clothes dirty as well as the daytime one. We have also taken the duvet off, which is still hanging in the yard, in favour of blankets, and we are not cold, but most certainly we are not being kept awake by excess heat.
Indeed, Roger Poopy’s father, he of the most recent haircut, was spotted shivering on his cushion this afternoon, and had to be removed into the conservatory, where it is warmer. It was not exactly cold in the kitchen, because I had the oven on, but we were in no danger of heatstroke.
I have concluded that the heatwave must be happening somewhere else, somewhere of interest to the media, ie, everywhere that is not in the Lake District. We have been told to expect a warm day on Monday, which is our share of the heatwave, north/south levelling up not having got off the ground yet, and we think we might not bother to go to work but go swimming instead.
I would like to do this, although am not entirely certain if it is a good idea, because the accountant telephoned this afternoon to go on about our tax liability, so we might have to start saving up soon.
We can always save up when it is raining. It would be a pity to waste a nice day.
It is still quite a nice day even now, although it is evening and I am on the taxi rank. It is not very warm, and I am pleased to have the mobile conservatory of the taxi, but it is not raining, which is always pretty good.
I have been very busy. I have been cooking, ready for the weekend. I did not get everything done that I needed to do, but I have made a start. I have made some chocolate cakes and some mayonnaise and some prawn toast, and I have made a start on the jam.
Mark picked the black currants the other day, and obviously the next thing is the jam. I am glad about this because we are on the last jar of last year’s, and also because I like black currant jam. We only have two sorts of jam, generally, either black currant and apple or blackberry and apple. The apple gets chucked in to make sure there is plenty of pectin. I sloshed some left over wine in as well.
It was left over because it was so awful. It was a bottle of wine we bought when we were at the theatre, and brought back with us even though it was rubbish. It was so rubbish that Mark offered it to a tramp outside the theatre, who declined. Note to theatre goers. Avoid the house red at the Palace.
I will have to finish the jam-making tomorrow, along with pie making and fudge making. It seems to be a very busy sort of life, especially because I am dying to get on with the story I am writing. I am going to draw an early halt to this and try and write a bit in between customers. I am at an interesting bit and want to write a bit more.
I have still not had time to open my new iPad. It is sitting on my desk, untouched like the sort of letter that might either be from the tax office or from the solicitors of a recently-deceased wealthy relative. I do not know if I am quite brave enough to open it yet.
Maybe tomorrow.
