By the time I publish this, I’m fairly sure that the glorious sunshine is going to be over.
That’s how British weather (and my blogging turnaround time) works.
This year we’ve seemingly forgone spring, and instead gone straight from the depths of winter (and not just any winter, I’m talking Elsa-level shit) into the kind of sweltering summer when all your kids do is moan about being hot and wanting ice cream.
It was 24 degrees here today according to the WTForecast app (it’s sweary but brilliant), a month or so ago we had inches of snow. I was still wearing my winter coat on the school run three days ago; today it was factor 50.
Keeps us on our toes at least.
It was such a sudden segue from cold and miserable to hot and glorious that I didn’t have time to prepare.
Having spent the winter months in storage, I had no idea where my ‘summer clothes’ actually were; turns out after turning my own bedroom upside down they were in my old bedroom, which my son has now claimed as his own, inside an old set of draws smelling a bit musty.
I’ll tell you what, there are nicer ways to confirm you’ve put on a few than trying to shoehorn yourself into a pair of shorts that you are sure fit this time last year, you lazy cow.
Luckily for me and my inability to stick to any kind of diet and/or exercise regime, I still have in my wardrobe a selection of stretchy summer dresses that I last wore when I was sporting a rather huge bump. Yes, I’ve reached for the maternity wear.
My child is nearly three, but I’m sweaty and I don’t care. This is not the time for leggings, even though they handily hide the fact I haven’t shaved my legs since 2017.
But what to do on a really unexpectedly sunny day?
In years gone by, at the first glimpse of the sun it would have been straight to the beer garden.
Given the probability that this would be deemed ‘boring’ by my children, the closest I got was a little warm bottle of wine in a plastic glass overlooking the adventure playground while I watched my children fight.
They both had an extortionately expensive ice cream. The small one took one lick and then passed it back. Turns out he doesn’t actually like ice cream as much as he does nagging for it.
It was still glorious.
Less glorious was being subjected to repeated cries of ‘paddling poooool’ from my oldest all the way home.
She gets an idea in her head – who knows from where – and that’s it. It must be.
Unfortunately for her, because I don’t take my own advice we actually have no paddling pool; what I do have is a garage full of crap and spiders which would take the majority of a weekend to sort out enough to locate the remains of last year’s paddling pool. I fear it would not be good news.
Never mind though, I thought. We’ll just pop to Asda and pick a new one up. They’re cheap enough.
But no. It being heatwave day two, they had, predictably, sold out.
Much to the dismay of my children, I did not purchase a paddling pool.
I did however spend £120 on ‘stuff’, including new shorts in a size bigger and an R2D2 helmet suitable for 5-8 year olds for my two year old because I was desperate to get out of there without a meltdown occurring, and I (correctly) feared the lack of paddling pools might be the last straw (and you know, safety first).
It’s not an experience I wish to re-live soon.
No under-boob deodorant in the world could have saved me.
And while I’m here, I’d just want to pass on a message to the utter cowbag who pushed in front of me at the sweatiest till in the busiest supermarket in the world to buy beer and cat food while I was wrangling two small angry, sweaty kids…
I hope your cat shits in your bed and knocks over your beer.