Some like it hot…but I like it cold
It is 7.15am. I am on my allotment watching a flock of sparrows decimate my neighbour Ted’s broad-bean blossoms. Any moment now, he will arrive whistling the Dambusters March and dressed in expectation of a boiling-hot day: T-shirt, kneelength khaki shorts and his old army beret. Ted thrives in the heat. Summer comes and overnight his skin turns from a wintry pallor to a healthy tan.
I am tying up my mangetout this early in the day because I don’t thrive in the heat – I fade. Clothed from head to foot like a beekeeper, leaving only a small aperture for my factor 50, sun-blocked face to peer out, I am one of those rare individuals who prefers cool, even cold conditions.
By late September, while my warm-blooded friends are still hoping to wring a few more hot days from the year, I will be daydreaming of Alpine-patterned pullovers and loitering in M&S to catch the new arrivals of all things thermal. My fingers will be crossed for a revival of the legwarmer, Aztec-style slipper socks, ponchos and snoods.
The other day, my friend Deirdre, talking to me as if I was 10 years old, said, ‘You need to get into the habit of wearing fewer clothes, not more. Get some sun on your skin.’ She’d flexed her toned and tanned arms. (Deirdre admits to using year-round tanning booths.)
‘But I don’t want to burn,’ I’d bleated.
‘Get an all-over sunscreen.’
‘I don’t want to feel greasy, either.’
‘Buy some of this.’ She’d held up an expensive-looking tube of apricot coloured liquid and read out, ‘A subtle hint of beige alabaster plus maximum sun protection. Available in Nude, Candle-glow and Wheat.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Fifty seven pounds but it should last the entire summer.’
‘Deirdre, at 57 pounds I’d expect it to last my entire life.’
‘Top o’ the morning.’ Ted hails me in a cheerful, fake Irish accent, which he believes goes with fine weather. I respond severely. ‘Did you know that the happiest regions in the United Kingdom are the most northerly?’
‘Says who?’ Ted bats at the sparrows with his beret. ‘Says last year’s “Wellbeing” Report from the Office of National Statistics. Apparently the Shetlands, Orkneys and Outer Hebrides are very satisfied with life, despite only experiencing three-quarters of the UK ’s average sunshine.’
Ted looks unimpressed. ‘Why wouldn’t the Outer Hebrides be “very satisfied with life”? They’ve got the perfect excuse to stay in bed all day.’
‘I don’t think you can just dismiss the Outer Hebrides willy-nilly,’ I remonstrate.
‘Why not?’
‘Because then you’ll have to dismiss Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Finland. Many cold countries are generally happy, satisfied and only ever mildly anxious.’
Ted puts his flask of chilled tea in the shade of a clump of rhubarb and prepares for battle. ‘What the devil have cold countries got to be unhappy and anxious about? My life would have been a darn sight better if I’d had the job opportunities of ski instructor, cable-car attendant or mountain guide. You could have been a chalet girl,’ he says magnanimously.
It had started as the perfect summer for me – chilly and wet. Each time I’m forced to switch my central heating on to ‘constant’ I’m thinking, ‘Good-oh. Now I won’t have to mow the lawn. The windows will wash themselves and I can cancel the barbecue for 10 friends with disparate eating tastes ranging from lentil kebabs to buffalo steaks and just loll on the sofa with last week’s copy of The Lady.’
I don’t dislike heat in its rightful place – which is during my summer holiday; but I actively welcome the onset of autumn. I love to luxuriate – mornings lying in bed for an extra half-hour enjoying the pleasingly, warm weight of a 13.5 tog, duckdown duvet. I can admire my crocheted throw, draped artistically over the foot of the bed. Its squares in jewel-coloured double-knitting wool look almost fashionable, whereas under the harsh light of summer, it reminds me of something my late aunt used to wrap around her arthritic knees and Peppy, her fox-faced Pomeranian.
In every way I’m geared up for the cold. I see myself as an intrepid frontiers woman, stockpiling bags of salt, tins of soup and boxes of cat biscuits (I have three cats) for the anticipated hard winter to come. At the ready by both front and back door is a spade to dig myself out of any possible avalanche or mud slip.
As I drop my trowel and ball of garden string into my trug, Ted says, ‘Talking of hot and cold, our very own Catherine Zeta-Jones favours St Tropez for her holiday playground.’ Ted has recently been reading Hello! magazine while waiting at the doctor’s for his angina pills prescription. ‘Now there’s a warm-blooded woman for you.’
I respond primly. ‘She’s certainly not my “very own Catherine Zeta- Jones”, Ted. I don’t think we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. I’m talking about our preferred environment, not how passionate we imagine people to be.’
I busy myself with removing my gardening gloves as the word ‘passionate’ isn’t one I generally bandy about when talking to Ted. ‘If we’re comparing celebs, my personal favourite, Jonathan Dimbleby, prefers to take his vacation in Siberia.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Ted mops his forehead with an impressive chequered handkerchief.
‘I think I’ll go now. It’s a bit warm for me today.’
‘Warm?’ Ted barks, ‘How would you cope in the Sahara Desert?’
‘Not very well.’
I join Margaret, an allotmenteer of long-standing who has never been sighted without her pea-green mackintosh. Fronds of spinach droop from her shop-ping bag.
‘It’s like Dante’s Inferno on my allotment,’ she observes.
I nod agreeably although I don’t think it’s quite that hot.
Ted shouts after us as we head through the allotment gate, ‘What are you, men or mice?’
‘Squeak!’ I reply.
Always You, Edina, by VG Lee, is published by Ward Wood Publishing, priced £9.99.
{acepolls 45}
I am tying up my mangetout this early in the day because I don’t thrive in the heat – I fade. Clothed from head to foot like a beekeeper, leaving only a small aperture for my factor 50, sun-blocked face to peer out, I am one of those rare individuals who prefers cool, even cold conditions.
By late September, while my warm-blooded friends are still hoping to wring a few more hot days from the year, I will be daydreaming of Alpine-patterned pullovers and loitering in M&S to catch the new arrivals of all things thermal. My fingers will be crossed for a revival of the legwarmer, Aztec-style slipper socks, ponchos and snoods.
The other day, my friend Deirdre, talking to me as if I was 10 years old, said, ‘You need to get into the habit of wearing fewer clothes, not more. Get some sun on your skin.’ She’d flexed her toned and tanned arms. (Deirdre admits to using year-round tanning booths.)
‘But I don’t want to burn,’ I’d bleated.
‘Get an all-over sunscreen.’
‘I don’t want to feel greasy, either.’
‘Buy some of this.’ She’d held up an expensive-looking tube of apricot coloured liquid and read out, ‘A subtle hint of beige alabaster plus maximum sun protection. Available in Nude, Candle-glow and Wheat.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Fifty seven pounds but it should last the entire summer.’
‘Deirdre, at 57 pounds I’d expect it to last my entire life.’
‘Top o’ the morning.’ Ted hails me in a cheerful, fake Irish accent, which he believes goes with fine weather. I respond severely. ‘Did you know that the happiest regions in the United Kingdom are the most northerly?’
‘Says who?’ Ted bats at the sparrows with his beret. ‘Says last year’s “Wellbeing” Report from the Office of National Statistics. Apparently the Shetlands, Orkneys and Outer Hebrides are very satisfied with life, despite only experiencing three-quarters of the UK ’s average sunshine.’
Ted looks unimpressed. ‘Why wouldn’t the Outer Hebrides be “very satisfied with life”? They’ve got the perfect excuse to stay in bed all day.’
‘I don’t think you can just dismiss the Outer Hebrides willy-nilly,’ I remonstrate.
‘Why not?’
‘Because then you’ll have to dismiss Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Finland. Many cold countries are generally happy, satisfied and only ever mildly anxious.’
Ted puts his flask of chilled tea in the shade of a clump of rhubarb and prepares for battle. ‘What the devil have cold countries got to be unhappy and anxious about? My life would have been a darn sight better if I’d had the job opportunities of ski instructor, cable-car attendant or mountain guide. You could have been a chalet girl,’ he says magnanimously.
It had started as the perfect summer for me – chilly and wet. Each time I’m forced to switch my central heating on to ‘constant’ I’m thinking, ‘Good-oh. Now I won’t have to mow the lawn. The windows will wash themselves and I can cancel the barbecue for 10 friends with disparate eating tastes ranging from lentil kebabs to buffalo steaks and just loll on the sofa with last week’s copy of The Lady.’
I don’t dislike heat in its rightful place – which is during my summer holiday; but I actively welcome the onset of autumn. I love to luxuriate – mornings lying in bed for an extra half-hour enjoying the pleasingly, warm weight of a 13.5 tog, duckdown duvet. I can admire my crocheted throw, draped artistically over the foot of the bed. Its squares in jewel-coloured double-knitting wool look almost fashionable, whereas under the harsh light of summer, it reminds me of something my late aunt used to wrap around her arthritic knees and Peppy, her fox-faced Pomeranian.
In every way I’m geared up for the cold. I see myself as an intrepid frontiers woman, stockpiling bags of salt, tins of soup and boxes of cat biscuits (I have three cats) for the anticipated hard winter to come. At the ready by both front and back door is a spade to dig myself out of any possible avalanche or mud slip.
As I drop my trowel and ball of garden string into my trug, Ted says, ‘Talking of hot and cold, our very own Catherine Zeta-Jones favours St Tropez for her holiday playground.’ Ted has recently been reading Hello! magazine while waiting at the doctor’s for his angina pills prescription. ‘Now there’s a warm-blooded woman for you.’
I respond primly. ‘She’s certainly not my “very own Catherine Zeta- Jones”, Ted. I don’t think we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. I’m talking about our preferred environment, not how passionate we imagine people to be.’
I busy myself with removing my gardening gloves as the word ‘passionate’ isn’t one I generally bandy about when talking to Ted. ‘If we’re comparing celebs, my personal favourite, Jonathan Dimbleby, prefers to take his vacation in Siberia.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Ted mops his forehead with an impressive chequered handkerchief.
‘I think I’ll go now. It’s a bit warm for me today.’
‘Warm?’ Ted barks, ‘How would you cope in the Sahara Desert?’
‘Not very well.’
I join Margaret, an allotmenteer of long-standing who has never been sighted without her pea-green mackintosh. Fronds of spinach droop from her shop-ping bag.
‘It’s like Dante’s Inferno on my allotment,’ she observes.
I nod agreeably although I don’t think it’s quite that hot.
Ted shouts after us as we head through the allotment gate, ‘What are you, men or mice?’
‘Squeak!’ I reply.
Always You, Edina, by VG Lee, is published by Ward Wood Publishing, priced £9.99.
{acepolls 45}