After a long and sweaty night of tossing and turning in what felt like an oven ( attic bedroom) I got up and went for an early lido swim which was gloriously cool and sparkling. Even at that hour there were lots of people, in particular my favourites, mums and kids who swim before school. Though how on earth they manage this is surely a testament to perfect parenting, as there would have been no way on earth we would have ever got this together AND got to school this side of lunchtime.
There have been many re incarnations of cafes at the lido through the years, some good, some mediocre and some I have forgotten. The current beach hut kiosk is a lesson in how not to run a cafe on a hot bustling morning. Anyone in their right mind can see how easy it would be to rake in the pennies with minimum effort by serving hot ( not luke warm) teas and coffees and fresh croissants that didn’t taste of dried cardboard like the leftover wizened specimens that were on display today. All this would be forgiven in a trice if distributed with anything resembling a smile or a hint of warmth but this was unavailable in both the coffee and the customer service.
There was a lot of muted mumbling and grumbling as we all queued in our towels in typically British fashion, while the man in the kiosk scowled at us. In the end I gave up and came home to make myself my very own piping hot cup, but it does make you wonder why they bother in that sort of “I am doing you a favour even being here…and what??? You actually want a coffee?” kind of attitude. Oh God I sound like an old person.
I know some people love this heat but I find it very challenging, and have even been perusing the Argos catalogue to see if we really could fit in a swimming pool between the chicken house and the roses. Its all very well if you are by a beach or under a tree in the shade, but a journey on the tube yesterday was torture, even compared to the number 68 bus which seems to have reversed its inefficient ventilation system so that the heating is full on in summer and dead as a doornail in winter. Seven stops on the northern line with my nose pressed into a selection of fellow passengers armpits was an experience to be missed at every possible opportunity. Why on earth can’t we even sort out proper air conditioning? I feel sorry for the poor souls who have to endure this nightmare at the start and end of each day because its grim beyond words.
The allotment is bearing up, but the ground is like concrete, making it impossible to plant much out without the aid of a pneumatic drill, but the sweetcorn is growing apace and the artichokes were magnificent. Each year they get better and better and we enjoyed numerous suppers at their expense, so all is well in our small oasis of vegetable heaven at the bottom of the garden. Even the bees have decided not to swarm again and the beds around their hives are rich with flowers and herbs, perfect forage for their sweet honey.
For the last couple of weeks I have been helping out with the Refugee community kitchen London outreach team ( some of you may remember my blogs after cooking with them in Calais). There is a group of volunteers who turn up to cook, prep and serve hot meals three times a week in North and East London. Serving supper from a trestle table outside designer shops and restaurants, to people who are hungry and vulnerable is a stark reminder of how incredibly lucky we are to have choices and privilege, and each time I come home humbled and angry that this is happening in 2018. I am hoping to get something up and running in Southwark with the RCK in the autumn so watch this space.
And it is almost time to start getting the camping stuff out and to make lists. I have put the recent photos of N Devon looking like Greece with turquoise sky and exquisite jade green sea to the back of my mind, because I cannot allow myself that tiny spark of hope that this year, just for once, it might not start raining as soon as I reach the turn off to Barnstaple…
Have a happy heat filled weekend everyone
Theresa's writing 
Leave a comment