Today I went bikini shopping. I loathe all in one swimsuits with a passion and like to let it all hang out on holiday. I usually am a bit of a cheapskate when it comes to swimwear, Hell, it’s going to get all chloriney, salty and sandy and covered in sun cream, so it’s Matalan, Primark or Tesco for me. I’ve always looked with vague curiosity at those swimsuit fashion pages which exhort you to “invest” in a piece of carefully sculpted Lycra, which usually costs more than the budget airfare.

For some unknown reason I ventured into a “proper” lingerie and swimwear shop today – maybe because of my advancing years and waistline – and took the plunge.

I’m used to feeling belittled and shamed in the privacy of my own little circle of hell known as the changing room, however this took on a whole new aspect. On enquiring why I couldn’t find anything for a 36C, I was loudly informed by the bossy and interfering shop assistant (who actually had a tape measure around her neck and glasses hanging from a chain) that “the average bra size” where I live is 34DD.

The bikini tops were therefore very tight around the chest with gargantuan cups and the bottoms seemed to be enormous granny pants with much too tight elastic. I ended up looking like a cross between Miss Marple and Madonna in her Jean Paul Gaultier phase, with decidedly more overflow around the edges.

The assistant, however, refused to be beaten and brought me a steady stream of increasingly ill fitting items, together with a loud running commentary about my odd body shape and “small chest”.

Even when I repeatedly redressed in an attempt to escape, she would fling another sized bra through the curtains and an “even roomier pair of bottoms” for the entire shop to enjoy.

In the end I left with a rather nice bikini which did fit properly and looked quite acceptable, but which cost me more than the lovely evening dress I subsequently bought after dazedly wandering in to the 70% off sale in Monsoon.

When we go on holiday this year, a bachelor friend of advanced years who lives a simple life, alone, with no animals will be house/hen/dog sitting for 10 days. I sat down today and wrote out what I do every morning before I go to work and when I get back in the evening to keep the house/garden/greenhouse/dogs/hens running smoothly/in order/fed/alive so that when we return all will be good with the world.

I then showed the sheet of helpful hints to himself to see if I had missed anything out.

“What’s all this crap? He’ll never read this! I’m sure he knows how to feed dogs and hens! It’s easy”

Oh, yes of course.

The magic, tactical, multiple, inane and routine job fairy which is present in every household won’t be going with us?

Hmmmm.

Sorting through our over filled filing cabinet and got to the receipts folder to prune and throw out. I came across these beauts which I feel reflect junior daughter’s early leaning towards veterinary medicine.

As the UK basks in this exceptional heatwave and even the nether regions of “up north” where I live reach the heady heights of 30 degrees I am saddened by the hysterical panic trumpeted by the government and the media. I am an old fogey who remembers the great drought of 1976 as a fabulous time to be a teenager on summer holiday. I’m pretty non pc at the best of times and rather enjoy basking in the sunshine – it gives me an enormous sense of well being and happiness. I do get a tan – I am lucky to have inherited a skin like a rhino that gets brown without burning – and rather enjoy being tanned. I do feel nowadays like I am as naughty as having a sneaky fag behind the bike sheds when I don my swimsuit and lounge about on a sun lounger. I am well aware of the damage the sun does to the skin and have no problem with the sensible advice to cover up and wear a hat and sunscreen, don’t burn, stay out of the sun at the hottest part of the day etc. Those with fair skins are quite right to take more care. However, I am making vitamin D and enjoying every minute. So there. Sue me.

Went Kayaking on the river today . Timed it for high tide so the travel up river was more effort than down. Hadn’t factored on the rapid reduction in the already shallow channels so, although the paddle back was a breeze, we occasionally got grounded on sand bars. Dog walkers on the shore were repeatedly entertained with a display of two overweight middle aged women flailing around with their paddles in the middle of the river trying to unbeach themselves.

Paddled under the bridge for the first time which was a lovely way to see a favourite landmark.

Warm and sunny so the inevitable soggy bottom was quite welcome.

Swimming coming along nicely and I can now maintain front crawl for a number of lengths. My technique appears to facilitate the development of an amusing and diverting phenomenon. The “Swimming Cap Fart”. As I plod up and down the pool, a proportion of the air I breathe out under water seems to find its way into my cap, resulting in a “Venteuse” like protuberance on the crown of my head. When firmly and steadily depressed this expels around the ear flaps producing a very pleasing farting noise resulting in consternation amongst the other swimmers as I look around accusingly.

Recent finds in my teenager’s bedroom.

A fossilised nectarine stone in a pillowcase when changing the bed.
About three weeks worth of worn underwear behind the bed headboard.
Plastic bags containing plastic bags containing plastic sandwich wrappers containing mouldy sandwich remains
All my pint glasses
The walking boots that were “lost” (under a pile of dirty washing) necessitating an emergency purchase of a new pair the day before a school expedition
Endless receipts for heaven knows what.
Rizla papers and a lighter in unwashed jeans pockets (NO! I don’t smoke mummy!)
All the recently, lovingly washed and folded clothes stuffed in various corners.
At least 5 dressing gowns draped artfully on various bits of furniture/doors/people
The entire contents of my towel cupboard, mouldering wetly in a pile on the floor.
Anything of mine that has gone missing.
A good number of cereal bowls containing small pools of melted Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
An empty waste paper bin surrounded by rubbish.
A snoring, unresponsive occupant.

Just found this historical post on my personal Facebook memories!

Just a little worried that my neighbour may think I have been abducted. Normally, I put the eggs they buy from our hens in a predetermined place in case I am out, and if I am in we stop after they have collected them and have a chat about life, the universe and local village gossip. Today I was in. However, I felt the need to hide behind the shed when I heard their car draw up at the gates, leaving an empty, silent house with all the doors wide open, a cup of tea on the kitchen counter, dogs lounging on the grass and the car boot open. From my concealed position I heard the eggs duly being collected after a bit of aimless pacing around the house and “hello”-ing. I shall have to remember to resist making the most of the sunny weather whilst picking strawberries, gradually divesting myself of fleece and t-shirt and ending up in my bra and a pair of shorts with an assortment of plastic clothes pegs filched off the washing line holding my hair out of my eyes.