Summer has come to Bigtownshire

The sheep are lying panting in whatever shade there is – there’s really nothing hotter looking than a hot sheep, even a recently sheared one. The dogs that regularly mark my passage on my bike have stopped telling me in great detail what they would do to me and my infernal machine were they not inconveniently chained up, and have been contenting themselves with a half-hearted ‘wuff’. And – you may have seen the white flash from London – I have recently donned a pair of shorts.

But not in the house. Even with all the windows open, all through the heat of the day, to step inside is to feel the chill clutch of the grave. Up until a couple of nights ago we were still using a hot water bottle. I’m guessing it’s the damp, that or letting the Rayburn out. Still, at least it means that if I’m ever tempted to utter those dread words ‘it’s t** h**’ I can go inside and lie down until the feeling goes away.