Let’s do this together
One of the best things about a heatwave is sitting in the garden on hot sultry nights with a cold glass of beer and enjoying a bit of Mediterranean life.
Although I usually have to do it in complete darkness as the next couple of weeks will be a battle to see which gets me first – overdose by antihistamine or being bitten to death by flying beasties.
I can usually cope with the boiling hot nights thanks to the Victorians who designed top and bottom opening sash windows for just this sort of scenario. However last night my bedroom turned into a furnace because I had an unexpected guest.
I heard The Dark Lord shouting in her sleep somewhere around 2am – she has form for this and once woke an entire holiday house up with her piercing screams. Everyone except me because I’m used to her making scary noises in her sleep.
When she was little she used to have entire conversations with herself – mainly about Mermaid Barbie playing dress up with Elsa from Frozen.
But this time she woke up in a fright and shouted to me to come and help. I jumped up and ran to her bedroom, to find her wide-eyed and muttering: “I’m getting this feeling of impending doom, Mummy.”
I felt her forehead temperature, and calmly said: “Don’t worry – I get that on a daily basis. It’s something that often happens when you grow up.”
She was too scared to sleep in her bed though, and insisted on coming into mine, which she hasn’t done for years. So the four of us – me, TDL, the dog and the cat – all squeezed on to my bed, and the tossing and turning started.
I’d forgotten how annoying sleeping with The Dark Lord was. She’s like a jellyfish. Wobbling and twitching while lying flat on her back, until she finally drifts off.
By 2am, the irritated cat jumped off and went to find a quieter spot, then by 3am even the dog left for his own bed.
After another hour, I decided to top and tail instead, and found myself facing her huge feet at the end of the bed in the dim light.
I gasped in shock and said: “Blimey, Ben Gunn, look at the state of your toenails. When did you last cut them?”
Which is why I found myself at 4.12am having a conversation with TDL about who Ben Gunn was and why he was marooned and living in a cave in Treasure Island.
If this hot spell carries on, I could find myself getting through the entire Robert Louis Stevenson back catalogue.
Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.