A Note on Seasons and Sensibilities.

I had another lane encounter with a dog this evening, only this one had a human attached. The dog was friendly, but the human scowled and said ‘It’s too hot, isn’t it?’ I broke with convention and disagreed, which isn’t what you’re supposed to do in Britain if a neighbour makes a trivial comment about the weather. You’re supposed to say ‘Isn’t it just? Roll on autumn, eh,’ even if you’re shivering under five layers of clothing (which I wasn’t, but that’s beside the point.)

When I got back I was pleased to be vindicated when I checked my outdoor thermometer: 21°C (69.8F if you’re colonial.) No wonder they think I’m odd. When they finally get around to chasing me to the burning mill with pitchforks, they’d better do so on a very cold night in winter so as to avoid melting before we even get there.

And just to prove that I haven’t become entirely bored with my new toy yet, I thought I’d offer this picture of my mother’s retirement presentation. I do so for two reasons:

1. Readers of longstanding might be interested to guess which of these nurses I would most and least want to appear out of the mist at 6am to change my dressing. The pros have two candidates, the cons one, but I think it would be ungracious to offer clues. You may, however, smile quietly as long as you do so with a modicum of guilt.

2. It offers a poignant reminder of the good old days when female nurses wore dresses and little caps which might be described as ‘fetching.’ I’m not at all sure I would want to be physically manipulated by a modern nurse wearing pyjamas, especially if she was also sporting boots more suited to chasing people to burning mills on a snowy night.