HOT AND NASTY

You know, we could go out for tea. A spot of hot tea around four o'clock would be quite lovely. Followed by smoking our pipes as we tromp around the moors outside the pavilion, wearing our rubber boots because the heather is wet and tall. Perhaps instead of a skirt you should wear thick brown corduroy trousers, as otherwise your hems would get damp.
Uncomfortable if it slaps against your legs.

Then back for more tea. After the pipes.

One of the things I remember from growing up in Northern Europe was, of course, frequent dampness. Almost everpresent. Before climate change every Summer had some absolutely soggy moments, and there were several good rainstorms every month of the year. Which is perfect weather for having a long smoke out on the patio under the deep overhang, while the falling water clatters onto the bricks a yard or two away. Teapot on the table, creamer, sugar bowl, big cup and saucer. Ashtray. Matches. And one or two of the cats.

The rhododendron and forsythia at the far end, past the apple tree, are heavy and intensely green in the diminished brightness of mid-afternoon.

Here in San Francisco however, mildew is not a way of life.
It barely ranks as a personal philosophy.
But we have tea.

Because of the unseasonal coolth, leaves on some of the trees down the block are already turning. Very subtle signs of Autumn. Once you get inland the temperatures will be up near ninety, here it's presently still below cold and might get up to late sixties by mid-afternoon. And it's cloudy. When crossing the bridge these past few days there was fog, and in the evening the approach to the Golden Gate went through grey vistas.

Unlike many natives, I do not like hot weather. Far be it from me to gambol nearly nude revelling in the oppressive sunlight, inviting cancerous growth on pallid flesh.
Indian Summer quite frankly leaves me cold.


There used to be a chap who during the hot weather would flake himself out on the grass in front of the building wearing naught but shorts, turning the saggy wrinkles on his gams and chest into hardened bronze shoe leather while smoking a Hoyo.

It was quite repulsive. Even the dogs stayed away.


Stringy old gits should not sunbathe.
At least not in public.




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