It's too hot to blog.
Like all big cities, London's heat is cumulative. A day or so of high temperatures are fine; we all revel in it, exalting in the balmy evenings, the chance to walk around after work with only a skimpy dress and no cardigan on, secure in the knowledge that this is a fleeting thing and that we are, after all, in London. It can't possibly last, we know that. One of the best jokes - or at least, one of the cleanest - that I ever heard about the British is related to this; in Britian, apparantly, we like 2 days of the year. Christmas, and Summer. Boom boom!
But just occasionally we get more than a couple of days of hot weather, and despite our protestations that we love it, and isn't it marvellous to be able to bbq every day, and who needs to go the Med for cafe society, London and it's inhabitants wilt like spring flowers in August.
The sun beats mercilessly down for 3 days or in this case, a week, and the heat builds up in the tarmac and pavements. By the late afternoon what would, elsewhere in the country, be a pleasant 25 deg C becomes an oppressive 29 deg. And that's discounting what it rises to on the tube. Being lucky enough not to need to use it on a daily - or even weekly - basis these days, I've managed to avoid it, but you can't miss those who haven't. They tumble out of the station at Gloucester Road, dazed, confused, and hunting desperately for the nearest air-conditioned shop to cool down in.
Boy #2 particularly seems to be finding the heat difficult to handle. At 2 years old, he has decided he would rather play inside than venture out into the furnace, and I can't say I blame him. Tempting though it is however to retreat into a hermit-like existence over the summer holidays, I find myself unable to do that. It's probably something to do with the fact that with Husband away in Mother Russia for a large part of the week, if we don't keep to our pre-arranged schedule of play-dates, summer school and haircuts, the only things I will find myself saying for 3 - 4 days a week will be:
Oh my god - is that another mouse? (because yes, they're back, probably sheltering from the heat outside like the rest of us. In fact, I think it's here in our tiny office with me right now, since every now and again I'm hearing unexplained movements. What, look? Are you crazy?)
Don't touch it - it's dirty!
No, we cannot keep it as a pet...
Don't touch that - it's poison! (we're using child-proof bait boxes but you never know. I am waiting for the boys to go on their grannie visits when trays of the hard stuff will be left in out for the little rodents to sample in relative safety.)
That's true, mice don't like poison.
Yes, they taste it, then decide they don't like it, and leave... That's exactly what happens.
Have you done a poo, Boy #2? (As I am overwhelmed by the olfactory evidence)
Are you sure you haven't?
Are you absolutely sure?
Yes, it is a big one, isn't it?
Maybe sometime soon you can start using the potty...
Off you go...
Boys! No-one is allowed to play with the bicycles indoors!
I know it's yours, Boy #1, but it's not to be used inside... Boy #2, have you done another poo?
And so on.
Oh, the glamourous lives we South Kensington Mummies lead. I'm going off now to melt in front of the tv and think nostalgically back to the days when warm evenings meant sitting on the roof with my girlfriends knocking back a glass or two of white wine. Check out the link below to the Echo Falls ad if, like me, you've forgotten that somewhat more carefree existence...