Ok so, in short, a brief look across the newspapers and whiff of my farmer’s wife armpits confirms that the world is melting and I am sweating more than I have ever swat in my entire life.
To put this into context, I am literally the coldest woman on the planet. I’ll give you an example – we went on honeymoon to the Maldives last November, and whilst everyone else was sat in the shade at midday, I went swimming in the lagoon. And when it dropped to a balmy 30 degrees in the evening, Ice Queen here was sat in a sodding cardi.
So it really does take a lot to make me hot, and thank god because – by the by – a sweaty upper lip is not a look I sport well.
But I mean, come on now, this is getting a tad ridiculous. My ginger brother hasn’t seen the light of day for a solid month, birds around the farm are randomly bursting into flame and if I see one more topless pastey-white British guy with his gut hanging out, I will not be responsible for my actions.
I know that farmers were praying for a drier couple of months after a horrifically wet winter and a pretty boggy start to spring, but this is taking the proverbial.
And if you think the general British public are a hard bunch to please with the weather, try being married to a farmer…if it rains, it’s too wet. If it’s sunny, it’s too dry…and don’t get me started on frost or snow. Honestly, they are never happy, so you can imagine the delight I am experiencing at the moment!
I really don’t want to conform to typical British stereotypy, but I am literally days away from having an actual full-blown meltdown (excuse the pun!) about this heat. The under-boob sweat is very real, and don’t get me started on the thigh chaffage.
But at least now being a cross-breed (lets be honest, a mongrel) of bumpkin and city-girl, there are some advantages. I no longer have to stare into the sweaty pit of a commuter which is at perfect eye-line or smell the waft of businessman BO drifting across my nostrils on the tube out of London. Small graces!
Except now I get the dust of combine harvesting literally a day after I washed my nice white car and my farmhouse is clearly the place where flies go to die. And where did all these damn spiders come from?!
So, in the interest of public safety, I am giving you fair warning that if this weather doesn’t sort it’s s**t out in the next week, then I am going to be adopting any measure necessary to ensure a successful rain dance, and no one wants to see that. Believe me.
Until next time! (Unless I happen to spontaneously combust beforehand)