We arrived back from France last weekend just in time for the rarely seen and thus fabled British summer heatwave. Of course, nothing will ever approach the famous Long Hot Summer of 1976. Although the summer of 1989 was supposed to be pretty hot, all I can remember of that heatwave is being sveltely pregnant with Merci Beaucoup Enfant Deux and planning my working day around the availability of and proximity to, lavatories. There's nothing quite like a second pregnancy and a 60-hour week for focusing one's mind. And one's bladder... Now, of course, I can swan about all day and not give a fig for anything other than recognising every moment of every day as the last summer of my active parenting career. The A Level results are published on Thursday - always the second Thursday in August. And then mercy boo is off to uni to read English Literature. Good girl.
So we left our house in France and returned to our English life again. Our home smells hot as we unlock the doors and open the windows. During our absence vases of roses shed their dessicated petals unnoticed over table tops, carpets and floorboards. Hastily tidied piles of books and papers in the study betrayed the thin film of neglectful dust. Threads of cobwebs discovered between the lamps betrayed our desertion. Desertion or relocation? We are home once more, in the heart of the English Midlands, surrounded by the hills and valleys of my beloved Derbyshire.
But our fridge is full with French groceries.
Christopher Lloyd would be proud.
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