We’re having a heatwave here in eastern England. Whilst torrential rain floods the west, we bask in unending sun, humidity and aphids. I’ve swallowed two today – running, so my fault really – and had a close relative – to those other aphids – crawl up my nose. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the village, my lettuces are all running to seed or collapsing into sodden manila paper, slick in your hands when you remove them. What was an aesthetic array of vibrant limes, greens and dusky reds, is now a dustbowl punctured by bindweed. I need to tidy and refresh, but want rain first. At least the tomatoes are happy.
And it’s Wimbledon. I’m missing Nadal – his affection for his opponents, his cheesy smile, that chipmunk-meets-surprised-squirrel face, not to mention his flair. I’m trying to be a Murray fan, but I find him hard to warm to.
These are all excuses for a lack of review. I am wearing perfume – living in Sel de Vetiver and Geranium pour Monsieur mostly. But the heat also makes me crave spice, which is why tonight is curry night. One of the wonders of Britain is the Indian takeaway/out. And for this celebration of colour and warmth and languid living, it has to be preformulation (or so I hear) Santal de Mysore, Lutens’ and Sheldrake’s rhapsody to spice markets, sandalwood, orange, yellow, red and sepia.
Tell me – how’s your weather? And what are you wearing to match it – or not?
Oh, and that picture is Holkham Bay. I’ll be there next weekend.