The forecast promises ...

... twenty-seven degrees Celsius tomorrow. Bliss!

We just have to get through this afternoon and tonight. At 2pm the thermometer in the shade on the veranda says one hundred degrees Fahrenheit (nearly thirty-eight degrees Celsius).

The hydrangeas on said veranda have collapsed in the heat.  I head for the water butt and a watering can then back off.  A cloud of wasps is around the tap, going for any dampness they can find.  The long hose to the outdoor tap to the house proves a safer bet.  I water the hydrangeas to the background noise of the combine harvester trundling up and down Monsieur F's neighbouring field of sunflowers that are blackened and shrivelled.  This is a month early, surely?

We cover the pool to keep off the dust and detritus from the harvesting. I'll open it up again tonight and swim in the warm water in the dark, stars and the lights from distant silent planes above me,  before heading for bed.  We have no guests at present, for which I'm grateful. No need to clean the cottage or iron bedding in these temperatures.  I have until the end of next week and its wonderful mid- twenties coolness. In Rio, when the temperature dropped that low women used to get out their fur coats. 

I've bought a mesh raised dog bed for Bertie from Lidl which is supposed to keep him cool. Bertie remains to be convinced, preferring the tiled floor. He lies in my study alongside the bed (which is not small) and I pick my way across what little of the floor is left for me and get ice to put into a small cube shaped fan on my desk, designed to be personal air conditioning. For the rest of the afternoon I'll play online games, gossip on Survive France and read others' blogs. Only mad dogs and Englishmen are out.  This English woman and her sensible dog are staying put indoors.