Unwanted Hair

 As a three year old, Bryn turned to me and asked very seriously, "Mummy, if you could have one wish what would it be?" I was just weighing up in my mind the relative merits of world peace and an end to child poverty when he piped up, "I bet it would be hair-free legs wouldn't it?" At the time I laughed, but if he asked me the same question today then a lack of body hair would feature fairly high on my wish list.
You see, I am rather more hirsute than I feel comfortable with at present, due to not really having had a proper bathroom for 10 days (see post 'The Bathroom' for further details). As a general rule, and to spare the sensitivities of the rest of the population, I tend not to be one for baring too much flesh. It is thanks to the law of sod that the only spell of adulthood where I have not had ready access to soap, water and shaving foam, has coincided with one of the longest spells of warm weather I can remember. A dilemma then. Do I go for comfort and risk tendrils of under-arm fuzz escaping for public viewing and stubbly white legs being on show, or wrap myself in leggings and a long-sleeved top?
Fortunately the bathroom should be finished today. I can get out all my depilatory accoutrement and even if it snows tomorrow I shall be out there in my shorts and vest top.

The Heat Wave

...and so most of Britain continues to bask in glorious sunshine going through what we call a 'heat wave' but which most of the rest of the world would call 'pleasantly warm'. We do like to over react here to any mild deviations from the 'norm'. If it snows a bit we close down the country just to be on the safe side; if it's cold for the time of year the media starts whining on about the cost of heating; if the mercury hits the high 20s then we begin to wilt and start every conversation with the obligatory "Hot enough for you, then?", accompanied by optional blowing out of cheeks and fanning gesture.

Geof's home-made greenhouse!

It never ceases to amaze me how a bit of sun can make people act in a way which they would not normally even contemplate. Huge white beer bellies and wobbly moobs are put on display to anyone unlucky enough to be within a 3 mile radius (I don't get my breasts out as soon as it gets a bit warm so why do you feel the need to?), old men dig out that 'jazzy' Hawaiian shirt from the back of the wardrobe which they last donned in the summer of '76 and so the list of crimes against fashion and general human decency continues.
The advice churned out on regional TV is incredible too. The other day, on the local news,  I heard someone they'd clearly dragged in off the street or possibly from a local agency 'Help The Total Cretins' say "Make sure you stay in the cool, wear loose clothing and drink plenty of cold drinks". Oh, and just in the nick of time for me. I was off to the greenhouse with my sleeping bag and thermos of cocoa which I'd laced liberally with salt.

Family Holidays Part Three: The Weather or Mon Dieu, il pleut!

The journey down through France would always have been spent in an uncomfortable, pre air-con sweaty haze as the hot French sun blazed down on us. The further south we went the stronger the sun's heat would be; a fiery orange ball in a clear azure sky beating down relentlessly. We would pass fields blackened by drought and heard the locals talking about how it hadn't rained in five months. There were hose-pipe bans, water shortages and the army had been placed on high alert due to the risk of wild fires. The elderly, infirm and very young were in grave danger as temperatures soared to previously unrecorded highs.
Like most teenage girls I was desperate to return to school in September with a nice tan and stories of a wonderful holiday romance. As the latter was totally out of the question on account of my smelling worse than a Russian weight-lifter's crotch (no shower - see previous chapter for full details) then the tan was my only hope of proving I'd had a decent summer.
So, despite all the traumas of the journey, arrival and sleeping arrangements I would wake up on the first morning full of adolescent expectation and pull open the curtains to be met with ... cloud. "It's not very sunny", I would say to my mum in that uniquely teenage way, which manages to convey to the addressee that you hold them totally responsible for whatever miserable state of affairs you find yourself in. "It's early yet", she would reply "I'm sure it will get out nice later on".
It didn't. It stayed overcast all morning, drizzled at lunch time and then the heavens opened in the afternoon. The locals were overjoyed, out doing rain dances, shouting 'il pleut'  and sacrificing small animals in grateful thanks at makeshift roadside shrines, when all I wanted to do was to worship at the altar of St Ambre of Solaire. The rain would continue pretty much unhindered for the next fortnight, clearing only temporarily one afternoon when we were inside visiting some sodding Benedictine monastery.
This would happen EVERY year. Had Dragon's Den been in existence in the 1980s we could have marketed ourselves as some kind of rain making device. 'Not had any rain for 9 months? Crops failing and your entire population on the brink of starvation? Don't worry. Call 'The Bennett Family' and see those clouds start to form within hours of their arrival'
And so I would return to England pasty and unloved (at least not by anyone French, male and aged 14-17). I never did achieve that 'just cuprinol-ed' look but now, aged 42 my skin is very grateful that I didn't.