Hot and bothered

I suspect that most people living in western Europe are trying to cope with extreme heat right now, and I share the feeling of being roasted alive. I am now in the age group which counts as ‘vulnerable’ plus I have asthma so keeping cool is important. I’ve never been one for too much heat—even as a child I was the grizzling party-pooper as the rest of my family, all dark-haired and dark-eyed sunlovers, roasted on the beach as mouse-haired, blue-eyed me huddled under the umbrella or swathed myself in towels, begging to go home. These were the days before readily available sunscreen and ‘sun-tan lotion’ was expensive. My mother used to baste us with olive oil for protection (WTF?). As everyone else turned a rich mahogany colour, I would burn and peel unless well-covered up. Later on I discovered that if I spent time in the sun carefully and properly protected I would turn a rather lovely honey colour, but it took time. Anyway, I hope you’ve been able to keep cool using whatever means you can. I swear by a tea-towel soaked in cold water, wrung out (not too much) and draped across my chest or round my shoulders, or even on my head. And of course I have the luxury of being retired and therefore can choose to do nothing at all except read. Definitely no cooking. However, as a consequence of doing nothing at all, I have very little to talk about this week. I apologise in advance for a ‘lite’ post and hope you won’t desert me in droves. As a positive consequence of the heat I have discovered Snickers ice cream bars (heaven) and Crunchie ice cream lollies complete with popping candy embedded in the chocolate coating. These have formed a major part of my diet since last Monday. I strongly recommend them both.

The garden is managing. I have done no extra watering (apart from one hydrangea that was looking very droopy), so it has been do or die. And everything has been surprisingly ‘doing’. Even a large hosta in a pot in pretty much full sun has been okay. The weeds, of course, are thriving—they never seem to droop and too hot to do anything about them.

Reading has been light and amusing. I picked up soft crime novel 10 Marchfield Square by Nicola Whyte from our local indie bookshop on a whim and have thoroughly enjoyed it. (I prefer ‘soft’ to ‘cosy’. ‘Cosy’ is so often just a euphemism for horribly twee.) In short, a very wealthy elderly woman lives in, and owns, the smallest square in London. One of her tenants is murdered, then another one in quick succession, and so she hires two more of her tenants (a cleaner and a failed crime writer) to make a parallel investigation to the police investigation. The characters are engaging, the dialogue is smart, and it rattles along nicely. There are secrets to be discovered and a neat little twist at the end, which I thought I’d identified at the beginning, but I had only sort of got there—which I suspect was intentional on the part of the author. It feels to me like the start of a series and I would definitely follow up on this investigating duo. It’s fun and clever. And it’s not too short, which is a criticism I have of a good many soft crime novels.

When I finished that I returned to the comfort of Angela Thirkell’s Barsetshire. I am part way through The Brandons and am thrilled to be reunited, via a country picnic, with the delightful Laura Morland and her irritating but entertaining son, Tony. Also, I love the covers on the particular editions I have been buying. They are Virago Modern Classics and have a soft, 1930s illustrative style. The covers are by the illustrator Garry Walton. They’re gorgeous and fit the novels perfectly. More of The Brandons next week when I’ve finished it.

I have no TV to recommend to you as we have not switched it on, on account of it generating quite a lot of heat, plus it also generating quite a lot of football. I keep an eye on the score for England games via my phone, but that’s about it for World Cup engagement. Wimbledon I also find tedious—if it’s not the same old, same old (I’m looking at you Djokovic and Serena) slamming their way to the top, it’s lots of people I’ve never heard of being praised to the heavens and then falling at the first (or second) net. I long for the good manners of Virginia Wade and Roger Taylor or the self-effacement (and the eyelashes) of Pete Sampras. Probably I’m just jealous of the young and super-fit.

I have been enjoying Laura Thompson’s recent posts revisiting her Best 11 and Worst Ten Agatha Christie adaptations. It’s in 3 parts; this one, with the best:

this one with half of the worst:

and this one with the remainder:

Whether you agree with Laura or not, the dissection is quite delicious. I agree with most, but I might have put Love From A Stranger higher up just because Basil Rathbone is so marvellous and so horribly, sexually creepy; and I would have put all the Phelps adaptations in the worst ten. Maybe in a category all of their own. And a special category for the gratuitousness of Aidan Turner in ‘the world’s smallest bath towel’.

And here I leave you. I sincerely hope it is cooling down where you are and that you are not feeling too horribly melted. Take care, and I will write again soon. x