I’m not a fan of the sun [the big yellow thing in the sky, rather than the smutty tabloid aimed at non-educated people]. Given a choice I would live in a world where only spring and autumn existed, with maybe a week or two dedicated to a winter that involved real snow, from which I could make real snowmen. I have very fair skin which is more likely to burn than tan, and the bright sun, mixed with intense heat, tends to make me suffer from severe headaches. I’ve never got on well with Heat. Heat is not my best friend, and never will be. I like to have a vodka with Heat sometimes, and occasionally I might lie with Heat [not in the biblical sense] in the garden and relax, or paddle in the sea with Heat, or eat ice-creams with Heat … but if I see too much of Heat I get ratty. Very ratty.
However, there is something wonderful about days that find me coming home with a smile on my face, after a horrid day, feeling the warm rays of sunlight on a cute little nose, hearing the squeals of children, seeing the groups of [nice] teens sitting on the grass near the swings, watching their mothers – dressed in a tenuous summer wardrobe that by the weekend will be gone again – walk the dogs and natter happily.
But the smile disappears when I water the front garden and see the tiny little weeds creeping up through the newly laid gravel, leaves weaving their way amongst stone … weeds that are only there because of the torrential rain that lasted 48 hours and was followed directly by the bloody hot sun. Oh, a casual passer-by wouldn’t see these weeds, but I see them. And it irks me. Muchly.
Other things that irk me today include not knowing London well enough to know if a street in which my paternal grandad lived in 1901 could be the same street that my maternal great-great grandad lived in 1881. If it is the same street then that would make London a small town. YesYes, I have the must-trace-family-tree bug again, but it’s not my fault … they put the 1841 census online, didn’t they [?! – *stamps foot in despair*] and now I know that a maternal great-great-great grandad [not the father of the aforementioned great-great grandad] was probably in ‘gaol’ in 1841. How pesky! … And to think, the family could have ended up in Australia …
please God bless me as I indulge in the apprentice xxx Elsabeth