Wishing The Summer Away

Amelia didn't get many of my dominant genetics. She is the double of her father in everything from facial features to personality but one of the things she did get from me is my intolerance to the sun. We both end up bright red despite factor 50 suncream every forty five minutes, hot and generally a bit disgruntled. That's all before the grumps and tiredness kicks in an hour after we return home; nobody said it was pleasant to live with us in the summer.

As always, she's trying to keep up with her sister and so it means trying to cover her up as much as possible while still keeping the cool and practical points in place. Every hat I put on her ends up on the floor within minutes of our arrival at our destination so I carry around one I can fold up in my handbag but even in the heat, this little one just doesn't stop.

We explore gardens for fairies at the bottom, look out for bees and ladybirds, draw tiles on the floor with chalk to practice hop scotch, jump, dash and skip everywhere we can and really, I'm tired. I now spend my days with a desk fan aimed directly at my face, my nights not sleeping and my dreams gallivanting to ideas of Autumn. My arms are a fetching shade of pink despite my best efforts to thwart the weather and every time I run errands I'm not sure which of my sins I'm being punished for first and in which circle of hell.

Go on, tell me off for wishing away the glorious weather that Britain hopes for in the other 340-odd days of the year. I need a kick up the backside to be a little more productive in this heat because coconut ice cream and lime water in short pyjamas just seems too good to pass up.