... we leave the swimming pool cover off at night in the hope that the water will cool;
... I'm grateful for the sweat from my hair line running down the side of my face and drying on my cheeks as I walk the dogs late at night past Philippe's now-harvested barley field;
... the water butts and underground tank are empty. I'm reluctantly using tap water and the météo promises at least another two weeks of high temperatures. At this rate it would be cheaper to let the veg garden dessicate and buy what we need from Lidl's;
... gardening is squeezed into the few hours before eleven in the morning;
... by mid-day the hydrangeas are wilting, no matter how much water I give them;
... I scan the skies for signs of thunder clouds building in the hope that they will break over us and not slip away north to the Dordogne;
... the citronella candles are recovering in the fridge. Left unlit on the table outside the cottage, they gently melted in the noonday sun over the new "Paris grey and red to match the parasols" plastic tablecloth;
... in the crêperie tonight Giselle air-kisses from the other side of the courtyard, exclaiming it's too humid for physical contact. We have gone there to celebrate. Tomorrow is the start of our ninth year in France.