Barbecue summer? Hurrumph.
Mr S and I woke to sunshine streaming through the windows, and we skipped down to breakfast full of writerly joys. Now, I understand that some people believe it takes a spell of bad weather to actually make writers sit down to work – and since I am an arch-procrastinator, you would be forgiven for believing this to be the case with me. Even agent Stan seems to think so. He called last week, full of glee at the bad weather, I could hear him rubbing his hands together Fagin-like. ‘I love the rain,’ he says, ‘it drives all my writers inside. I can see them all shut in their houses working.’ He didn’t then do an evil laugh, but he should have done.
When I write, I need to pace. Our cottage is very small and only a hobbit could pace without banging his noggin on the ceiling. So, I like to pace in the garden, and in the fields. Otherwise known as ‘going for a walk’. Well, this morning, Mr S and I happily embarked on our perambulation in perfect sunshine, thinking ‘at last the met office’s bbq summer.’ It was charming. The birds chirped. The corn swayed. We chattered through plot points, neither really listening to the other but we were very happy.
Then it rained. I mean really rained. One minute sunshine and smiles, the next we were huddled in shrubbery, and bushes don’t provide the shelter you’d think. Short of putting on my wellingtons to sit in the bath, I don’t think I could have got any wetter.
I’ve been drinking tea and Heinz tomato soup to warm up and I’m still cold. I’m probably going to get swine flu now. Or just old fashioned pneumonia. The sun is shining again now. I’m not going to trust it. It’s just trying to lure me outside…