The locals, particularly the expats, are whingeing because their pool thermometers fail to maintain a temperature of 27 degrees. What we seem to be having here is the equivalent of a decent southern English summer and this is not what people expect. In comparison to a typical Scots summer, let alone the weather at the moment, I find it bliss.
With the French holidays under way, the population of the village does a mild shift. The family at the bottom of the street with whom I rarely communicate has decamped. My neighbour’s young are around much of the day rather than at school. This means that their dogs get yelled at to shut up quite often when they yap frenetically at a car they know perfectly well. One of the houses at the edge of the village has been opened for the first time since last summer and a portly gentleman with office-white legs was making heavy weather of mowing the lawn. And it looks as though the sorciere’s grandson may build his garage after all, but on his Granny’s old garden rather than against my hedge. He’ll have to pull down the concrete-block wall that he had already constructed across my boundary and I hope he leaves that job till next year. By then the hedge there, which he cut to the ground to give himself room to build, should have grown tall enough to give me the privacy that his illegal wall currently provides.
0 Responses to “27 degrees”