Dear diary,
For the love of whatever deity, you believe in who has piddled off the mercurial one? And for once I don’t mean my mother, but mean Mother Nature, who is clearly either somewhat peeved or going through the menopause because heat is the order of the day. I mean, it’s September, a time of apples falling off trees, foggy autumnal mornings, leaves changing colour and all that pretty stuff. It is not a time for BBQing my Hovis sausage while it’s still attached (although for the absence of doubt, I would very much like it to remain attached – it was bad enough someone took my maracas as a baby, I don’t want them taking my drum stick too…).
I haven’t been this sweaty since 2009 when I was young, naïve and stubborn and hadn’t realised that mother is stubborn enough to ride for four hours in 100 degree heat until I stopped being “an arse”. I had thought it was an empty threat – I very, very swiftly learnt it was not. The fact she couldn’t walk for a week without looking like John Wayne due to the chaffing didn’t sooth me then and still doesn’t.
Anyways, back to the oven we find ourselves in. It’s madness. We stay outside, we sweat. We go inside, we sweat. I twitch an ear, I sweat. It’s gross. The amount of fluid pouring out of me, I’m surprised I haven’t ended up on the dried fruit aisle as Chavda.
When Cool New Shoes Man came to shoe us this week, he was a long way from cool and for once I didn’t dare lean on him for fear of causing him a heat-related heart attack, and to be honest, because I’m covered in my own sweat, I didn’t want it mingling with his – and he was sweating more than Wesley Snipes’ tax accountant at a dinner of the IRS. Pleasant it was not.
You would assume therefore that due to the ridiculously high temperatures, I would be relieved of my weekly parade around the village that Crazy Self Employed Lady makes me endure all in the name of “keeping me ticking over”. Oh no. Her answer to this is to get up so early that even the worm thinks she’s nuts and go out before the sun gets up. Like BEFORE breakfast. I have never heard of anything so inhumane in all my life. They give last meals to people about to meet their maker even when those people are very, very, very bad people – what have I done that justifies not getting mine? The fact that despite the very real threat of death, we do return safely to the yard each week is not an example of me being prone to hyperbole and gross exaggeration as it may be implied, but instead is a testament to my lightening ninja-like reflexes, manly ways and determination to carry on living a life that for 23 hours out of 24 is pretty darn good. I think therefore it’s not too much to ask to have my blinking breakfast first.
So whoever has annoyed her, please go and put it right. Ideally fairly quickly. If you need a small ginger sacrifice to seal the deal, I might know where there is the perfect one. Call me.
Laters,
Hovis
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