It's too hot.
My new laid grass is browning. I can't find the sun cream. I have spent the last week in the South, wishing I was North, where, not only did the warmth start two days earlier, but we also have no paddling pool ban.
We drove North, the children and I, yesterday: four children, one adult, 350 miles, 28 degrees, the sun baking us like overdone cakes in an oven, the air con set to max the whole way.
But I have woken this morning to a different world: 8 degrees out there at the moment. Maximum 12 later. Colder than the air I was so desperately blowing at myself yesterday.
And I am flummoxed. I have forgotten how to be cold: which cardi goes with which top; that the children need coats and wellies at nursery, and where those things are. All my plans for this weekend, founded in the heat of the last one, are wrong: who's really going to want to eat salads and ice cream, and spend the day on the beach?
I'm not the only one: already I can see equally flummoxed passersby shivering in inappropriate strappy tops. A has just come in, shivering in just her pyjama bottoms, but refusing to put on her top...
This morning's cold seems impossible. By lunchtime so will yesterday's heat.
Aren't humans odd?
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