So, as Britain is gripped in another heatwave, we sit and complain it's too hot. For the first time Wales is the centre of attention with the border facing temperatures of at least 35, and suspected temperature of over 39.
Apparently it's warmer here then Miami and the South of France, and all I can hear when out on the street is all the old fogies complaining it's "too hot." In my [humble] opinion my idea of too hot is when tarmac peels up from the road, trees die as the baking temperatures strip the moisture from their bark, and people are found partly baked lying in backgardens with domestic animals nibbling on bits that are now classed as medium to well done. Admittedly, if you plan on doing anything outside more strenuous then breathing then perhaps the heat might make life a little laboured, but let's be honest and remember it's only 4 months ago we were suffering with snow and the bedlam that ensued.
In the meantime, I have continued to work on my car. In reality I have worked on it before 12, and after 7, because the 64 degrees my drive has reached has become "too hot." But excuse me if I don't enjoy lying on something that can fry eggs.
In the meantime I will enjoy the garden, a glass of wine, and swatting away the flies.
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