3/7 & 4/7

This one will not surprise many. It is perhaps one of the primary incentives for my push to the green and pleasant land: my preference for colder climes. As a child I yearned for that "rainy day" which almost never came. This is, in my mind, the most likely reason for my inability to save anything. Least of all  - nay, especially - money.

I adore a frosty morning, one so cold as to make the thought of leaving the bed quite abhorrent. To sit by the fire, pot of tea (or glass of sherry) and good book in hand. Or perhaps even a very good film to watch. My pleasures are generally the indoor pursuits. But equally too, I love Winter walks. Rugging up and stomping about in Wellington boots - such fun. The sunny Summers sadly do not suit me. I burn very easily, my hay fever is quite debilitating and I do not suit swim-wear. Or shorts. Not that I think they suit many people any way. But mostly, I dislike the heat. I cannot stay cool. In the Winter it's fine, one dresses appropriately - and rather more smartly - and there you are, quickly warmed up.

Not so in Summer, particularly when one lives without the luxury of air conditioning. At it's worst, I cannot sleep. This was rather brought home to me the previous week, on a Balinese sejour. A family holiday, all rather lovely in theory. Escaping the Wintry "depths" for heat and humidity, endless pools, food, cocktails and shopping, it sounded rather wonderful on paper. However I had forgotten how little much of the previous list suits me. I didn't even want to drink the cocktails, such was my misery. Oh dear that does sound oh so pathetic. A free holiday and such was my attitude. I hope my behaviour wasn't too ungrateful, especially as I insisted on cutting my time there short by a week. I simply couldn't have faced two weeks of the place, when all I wanted was my own warm bed, my protector from the winds and the rain. (Yes there was actual precipitation).

Some like it hot...

Linked, but quite worthy of being in its own category, is snow. I just adore snow. Cannot get enough of it. I may have mentioned I grew up in a warm climate, somewhere along the line. Shocking, I know. So I imagine my lack of experience with cold and precipitation has had some influence here. In fact I didn't see snow until I was fourteen. It was on a rather gormless school trip to the nation's capital - a city built by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, it is a civil servant's wet dream (do excuse the vulgarity). To encourage the students to engage with the historical and political bent of the tour, we were also treated to a spot of skiing, which is of course where the introduction to snow came in.

I could perhaps describe our meeting as something along the lines of falling in love. It was certainly an immediate infatuation, one which lingers to this day. There is something about snow's ability to transform a landscape entirely, to silence, to cleanse, to purify. It was also the source of a great deal of fun. A hopeless skier, I am nonetheless enthusiastic and devour the slopes rather like the cheese boards and mulled wine I enjoy afterwards. Perhaps not the mulled wine when I was fourteen, I think it was most likely a very strong hot chocolate.

The mere sight of snow will reduce me to a level of giddiness, silliness and frivolity not known since nursery. It is like seeing a long lost friend, and much like all good friends, one can pick things up exactly where they were left off. I was blessed to experience some of the snowiest English Winters known for years, for which I'm too grateful. Of course, I pretended to tire of the disruption it would always cause. But secretly I was always very amused and rather pleased. The Christmas I spent in Sweden was something else, in terms of the volume of snow, the level of cold and a remarkable ability for a long-suffering population to soldier on. A myth Mr Fry once debunked, was the nonsense that the Swedes suicide abnormally more than anybody else. If you cross the Baltic to Lithuania, well then yes, it is unusually high, but I rather hope my good friend the snow is not a contributing factor.

So there you are; the cold and the snow are two things I like. Good.

Gramercy!

Just a little vieux anglais to thank people for the very kind things they have told me the last few days. One writes for a variety of reasons, but deep within, a little acknowledgment - even praise - spurs one ever onwards.

Having just opened my diary at random, I came to the Oxford & Cambridge boat race day. I have no direct connection with either university, but for some reason have always cheered on Oxford. I do, however, have strong rowing connections. My brothers both row, and very well, for my old school. My father rowed in Australian Surf Life Saving competitions. And friends here have rowed at Henley Regatta (possibly my favourite event in the English calendar) and even for Great Britain in the Commonwealth Games. So I naturally have tried to take an interest, and usually eventuate with a strong desire to look every bit as fit as they do. Then I remember how early they rise and the temperature thereat. And despite the fact I tell anyone who will listen that the Thames is one of the cleanest city rivers in the world, and has welcomed back marine life including sea horses, it remains the Thames.

But I wish to tell no more of rowing. The day preceding this world-famous event, was much more peculiar. On arrival in this country, I made a varied assortment of friends, as I think one does. This happened to include some South Africans. Goodness knows why, but I rather enjoy the lilting accent some of the posher SA's seem to have. The proper Afrikaans leaves me rather cold. One of the better-spoken ones returned home not long after we had met. Naturally, one says in a very well-meaning manner "Oh yes of course, do keep in touch, must catch up if you're ever back again etc. etc."

Imagine my surprise to receive a text many months later. "Hallo, it's *such and such*, how are you? I'm back in town, do you fancy catching up?" Naturally I accepted. I find it difficult to refuse anything at the best of times, and I genuinely thought it might be nice to share a cup of tea, Rooibos of course. Come the time to leave, an eerie, black cloud was bearing down upon Londres. I should have known then and there. Still I carried on; TfL this, replacement bus service that. Meeting in Vauxhall with no Victoria Line is incredibly painful. And dull. Finally I arrived, late of course, with my phone ringing.

"Hallo!" I trilled.
"Hallo?" Blatant unease there.

Quickly I became aware that the voice on the other end of the line was wrong, and for several reasons. One being that the voice was English, another that it was wholly unfamiliar and latterly, it was coming from the man standing next to me - staring and slightly colourless.

"Well you're not the *insert name here* I was expecting! How hilariously awkward." I don't think I was quite so articulate, but then I'm allowed some artistic license.

 "Oh. I was very worried *insert name of friend who had failed to mention she was giving out my number to chaps when they asked for hers* had had a sex change."

Worryingly, he looked genuinely concerned as though this could have been the case. At this point, the heavens chose to open, featuring golf ball sized hailstones. As we could both appreciate the comedy of the situation, we decided that, rather than remaining outside, amongst the weather, we should have that cup of tea after all. It turned into a rather funny afternoon. Howsoever could I have been so foolish! To lazily assume that nobody else, similarly named, would mistakenly contact me, asking to take tea. The first twenty minutes was spent laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. Shame that didn't last, because he then became frightfully dull and nouveau riche. Yacht this, broken marriage that, celebrity party this, negative equity that. Dull, dull. Little wonder my friend gave him un faux numéro. How irritating that she should have chosen mine. Why not one of the many people she truly dislikes.


Bored, I made my excuses and dashed into the maelstrom.


What I do cherish is that this and other bizarre modern tales can and do happen. Sometimes they might bring unexpectedly welcome surprises, others... Little more than stories for a dying dinner party. They remind one of the possibilities of life and equally, it's abject pointlessness. For years, my brothers and I have rolled our eyes at our Mother's incessant use of positive affirmations. Irritatingly, I may be doing some unrolling.