I was bored enough of the heat nearly a month ago when I arrived back from a week in Ibiza, only to be disgusted to find temperatures were pretty much identical to the sweatbox island I’d escaped.
A poor attempt at a downpour on Friday cooled my skin as effectively as I imagine those little whistles on the lifejackets they give you on planes would be in attracting attention in an emergency, hundreds of miles offshore.
With such a massive margin of error, only I could have arranged a special golfing getaway at the time the heatwave was forecast to abruptly end, with day one’s venue expecting thundery showers around tee-off time.
You don’t have to be a golfer to know that thunder isn’t the best bedfellow with metal stick-wafting humans. You also don’t need to be a genius to establish that downpours are not ideal when you’ve opted to swap Lenny Henry’s Premier Inn for a tent in a field somewhere.
Ok, booking in for a trip to Wales, rather than La Manga, was always going to be a risky one.
But it was just my luck when searching ‘Monmouth’ and finding the worst possible weather predictions.
I thought I’d hit jackpot when I saw it was going to be sunny skies and a reasonable temperature. Then, I realised I’d accidentally searched for ‘Montreal’.
This lad’s tour was the first time I’d been away from Albie for more than a night. Without technology to get updates along the way, it would have been even more gut-wrenching to leave him for so long.
I’m not sure Hanna had much sympathy for my weather woes. Left literally holding the baby, she faced caring for a tot who doesn’t really like being put down very much and keeping everything ticking over in my absence – though perhaps threat of lightning might have given her pause for concern. Her task would be way harder if I ended up fried like the light switch that time she nearly killed us by cleaning and setting fire to it!