Open Writing

With heat and tempers soaring, I think the effects of the sizzling heat-wave could be quite long-lasting.

Judging from the shopping battles I saw last week some of the whiney tots will be nursing their ‘tanning’ scars for some time to come. Tears and sweat were flowing all over the town centre. The ‘Can I have’ becoming ‘I want’ and the ‘No you can’t,’ becoming a belt to the nearest ear.

But although the sunshine brings out the worst in some of us, it certainly has a gorgeous ripening effect on others. I spent a wonderful lunch hour on the Piazza gaping at all the bare torsos and hairy legs of our splendid Yorkshire males. The invigorating sight of all the young and beautiful bodies certainly put new life into my brown bread and lettuce.

In my youth brawn and biceps were only allowed a quick boil in suntan lotion once a year on the sands, so perhaps that’s why I can’t stop gawping (either that or the fact that I am forty-three on Saturday). I heard someone recently complain about the copious nude females who habitually adorn certain newspapers. Yes, I agree, it is shocking. All these undressed women on display. When are we going to see some manly chests, for a change?

But this weather takes some dressing down for. One minute the children emerge from their ransacked wardrobes in shorts and vests, next it’s long sleeves and long faces because they are burning. In between postman and insurance callers, I have managed to give my spare tyre an airing. Unfortunately as soon as I sprawl out in plump abandon, every fly in the neighbourhood decides it is time for the family to leave the rotting vegetation and go walkies on me.

Instead of half-an-hour’s relaxation, I am banging my bulges together or swiping myself viciously in the vain hope of mutilating at least one offender.

Incidentally, whoever said wasps don’t sting if you keep still is a liar. If you don’t move they think you like it and sting again.

Actually, I consider wasp killing one of the pleasures of summer. It’s nearly as aggression-relieving as blue-bottle swatting. I love to hear the crunch as their crackly bodies squelch against the window and find it most amusing to watch one wasp become two wiggling halves. But they probably found it just as much fun the year they stung us out of the bilberry patch and then set their ant mates on us when we sat down.

But if the long hot days are difficult to struggle through, the nights present one or two sticky problems. What to wear? Man-made fibres are useless and only keep the heat in. The double-layered nylon nighties have a built-in hazard - if hubby falls asleep on a corner of the top layer you could be imprisoned all night. One friend told me she once nearly hung herself trying to turn around and hadn’t realised she was trapped until she heard the rip of nylon and discovered she had lost a layer.

Chanel No 5 may be cosy for film stars, but it can be a clammy experience. Bodies can become so riveted together that parting is not only ‘sweet sorrow’ it’s seethingly painful. No, it’s either comfortable cotton or the garden wall for me.

I can remember long, humid twilights during the war when neighbours’ late night gossip swapping used to enliven many a restless night for my sister and I as we listened at our bedroom window,

We soaked up all the exciting adventures they had endured in Ward 2 and wondered how Mrs So-and-So dare venture out on windy days when she had had ‘everything taken away.’ We imagined her as light as a feather with nothing inside her. But some of the juicier bits were told in whispers and we never did find out why the glamorous Mrs B managed to get bananas without a green ration book!

Psychiatrists get crazier. One article I read recently advocated making love as a body cooler. My advice to you Doc is change your girlfriend. Our paper shop sells the cheapest icy shivers in a polythene strip for 1p with a friendly chat thrown in.

The summer fete season is in full swing again. What joy. You spend all week being cajoled into designing a fancy dress. The fete-ful day arrives. Everyone dressed up and ready to go. Then ‘I don’t want to dress up’ says our temperamental Victorian lady throwing her lovingly designed and extremely pinned and delicate headgear at the dog. ‘Alright then don’t,’ says patient and ever-loving mum proceeding to undo pins.

‘No don’t, I do,’ she says in her own special language. After this performance has been repeated several times, we then move on to the ‘What if I don’t win,’ parable, with glib lies about the taking part. ‘You are just entering for the fun of it love,’ I say as I stick another pin into the uncomfortable straw hat and wrap the prickly net shawl around her neck, resisting the temptation to pull it tight! At least our fete organiser presents all competitors with a bar of chocolate, which quells the disappointment of some of the children.

Yes, take advantage of the sunshine, it’s salubrious, it’s heart-warming and there is no bill at the end of it. No fireplaces to clean and in my case no coal to haul in! Great.