British Summer Time

Little Man asked me the other day when Summer was going to begin.  It happened to be a blustery day in the middle of June in which it had already hailed and rained and the sun had been blown clean out of the sky by some ferocious winds.  It was also, technically, in the middle of the British Summer – which stretches loosely from June to August.  However, on explaining this to Little Man, he looked out of the window dubiously and announced that perhaps I had got it wrong, and he would Google it…

 

This is a Common Occurrence in my house – where the boys will ask G and I a question, and if they don’t like the answer they resort to the web.  This results in both of us toppling off the pedestal with monotonous regularity.  G has started to make up outrageous explanations to things, but I have to remind him that his dad did exactly that to him, and consequently he went into school telling everyone that he was found by his parents under a bush and was actually the son of an earl.  (Mind you, it wouldn’t surprise me if he actually still believes that one…)

 

But the fact of the matter is that the Summer has not really made an appearance this year – the sun comes out to play on odd days, and by the time we have all dusted down last years shorts and depilated all the ‘winter fur’, it has retired again. Despite that, on the first of June every year, there is a diehard type of Briton who refuses to let a little rain defuse their new summer wardrobe.  These can be typically seen hanging round shopping centres, muffin tops the colour of uncooked pastry hanging out of preshortened t-shirts – and that’s just the men.  The women shimmy forth in a variety of luminous colours, often strapless tops, and teeny weeny shorts uncovering legs that would be translucent in winter, if it was not for the streaky application of fake bake – which results in an orange tan that is not seen naturally in any country on the planet.  Couple this with a few of bottles of WKD or premixed Sangria, and summer is well and truly on its WayHay.

 

So it was that when today dawned clear and sunny, and I had despatched G and the two older boys to an all day athletics competition which for once hadn’t been rained off, I closed the doors on the armpit that is my house, and announced to Little Man that we would have a picnic in the garden.  And what a feast we had – a wicker picnic hamper with real china plates and glass champagne flutes was rescued from the loft where it had lived on and off for 15 years since our wedding.  We filled it with traditional British fayre – a crumbly pork pie, some cold chicken drumsticks, a mature cheddar, some crusty bread and a Victoria cream sponge cake with fresh strawberries for afters.  Muttley joined us, and sat at a respectable distance with his dog bowl, eating the few delicacies that were chucked his way. At one point he got very excited – was it the chicken? No.  Was it the pork pie? No.  Was it the cream cake? No.  It was, in fact, the strawberries. Little Man looked at me ‘Are dogs allowed strawberries?’ he asked.  I answered Yes, and the next thing I saw, he had taken my phone and was Googling the answer.  I was, in fact, right, and Muttley sat happily chowing down on the juicy berries, stalks and all.

 
We lay on our backs, sated, looking at the clear blue skies, with the sounds of the birds chattering in the swaying trees above us.  The British Summer may be short, it may be unpredictable, but when it comes, nothing beats it.