We live in Ireland...we don't do 'hot'...hot is for holidays in Spain or Portugal...hot isn't for here.

We have cool days of floaty clouds and light showers...we don't have boiling hot days when our thermometer threatens to send the mercury bursting out of the top into the ether...we aren't supposed to be dragging our feet and sighing and wishing it were bedtime already 'cos it might by chance be a few degrees cooler...we don't have fly screens and air conditioning...so great fat furry moths batter themselves against the lights in the evenings and get caught on the fly traps and I wave my hands about and squeak...Oooo...poor thing...get it off...quickly!

And we prop the bedroom window open as far as the creaky hinge will go with an old book and sweat under one sheet and toss and turn and get up for a drink and think about those cosy winter nights when I snuggle down with a hottie bottle and about a dozen blankets heaped on top of me and slurp hot chocolate laced with Whiskey while my hands grow icy cold holding my book...

We don't do heatwaves you see...we're Irish. We g
et our clear complexions from the soft rain and our skin is pale and freckled and we sort of go a bit soggy

when the temperature rises above 60 degrees f.....the roads simply melt and the car tyres make swishing noises and the road men at the by-pass are darkest deepest brown and the ones who control the traffic are the brownest of all of them and are cross and evil tempered and wave their arms about and scowl..


People drive past our cottage at five in the morning to take their dogs for walks on the bog and Marian doesn't even set off until after ten at night with the dreaded Otto and his assorted mates...

The donkeys lie out in the sunshine basking in the heat while the cows and sheep in the surrounding fields squeeze temselves under the hedges and stand about under lone Hawthorn trees revelling in a bit of shade...it's hot all the time. Hot in the middle of the night when the sky finally grows dark and hot at six in the morning when the dogs wake up and begin to yawn heavily and fart and bark...ready for the new day.

By about ten in the morning they are collapsed in soggy heaps on the floor under the 'fridge and they pant and dribble and heave heavy sighs and lie on their backs with their legs in the air and pink tongues hanging out. They are Irish dogs you see and are more used to standing about in the rain and splashing into puddles and coming home with steam rising from their mud caked coats.

We can't be doing with the endless watering of any flower in a pot...we are used to having to drain them, not needing to water them twice a day or else they curl up and shrivel...we don't like the new fangled Orange alerts the Dail has decided upon and all those warnings about swimming in the gravel pits and paddling deeper than your knees in the Atlantic ocean...we are too used to seeking shelter from the latest rain and watching the surfers ride the great breakers while we sit on the wet sand and shiver with a warm cardie wrapped about our person.

I don't much care for the hot...I like those warm days with a gentle breeze when I can sit outside of an afternoon without dripping profusely over whatever it is I'm doing...and I really don't care for these hot nights when it barely manages to get dark and no sooner have I gone to sleep than it's time to get up again...

If this is a result of global warming I don't like it at all...









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