Heatwave, surely not!
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Britain’s Heat wave Steams Along By Deb Gale The summer to top all summers almost fizzled out spectacularly when the weathermen chillingly predicted ground frost for the morning of 31st August. Surprisingly, our impeccable Met Office Roundabout forecasters got it wrong, off by several weeks and several degrees. Across the island a collective sigh of relief could be heard because no one is quite certain how to get back to normal after experiencing the most staggering, record-shattering summer in centuries. In the early days of blue skies and sunshine everyone kept their guard up knowing it was all smoke and mirrors and it would soon end in rain. As those days turned to weeks and since housewives turned into certified, card carrying sun worshippers the machinations of home maintenance came to a screeching halt. As the freezers and fridges got emptier, and the laundry piles got higher, the call for afternoon Pimm’s got louder and the nation adopted a mini-manana attitude. The grocery stores and shopping centers were deserted while every sun lounger and every inch of sand in the land was claimed and everyone waited for the inevitable. It is now mid-September and the amazement continues. While David Blaine swelters in his plastic box above the Thames, the natives stroll along the Embankment to the strains of steel drums still sporting halter necks, bare bellies and shorts. Another official end of summer rite, that exuberant, patriotic celebration of the Empire called the Last Night at the Proms has also come and gone. I can’t tell you why they call it the Proms but it is nothing like any prom I ever went to. This extravaganza takes place at the Royal Albert Hall with thousands of additional revelers on hand in Hyde Park. This year the magnificent orchestra and singing came with equally superb video feeds from across the United Kingdom via Swansea, Belfast and Glasgow. The music is so beautiful and the singing so contagious, it makes me ache to be British. Thank God I am married to the Brit but then I do have the obligatory drop or two of Irish blood in me from my mom’s side. All Americans claim to have some, at least on St. Patrick’s Day - don’t they? I didn’t venture to the states this summer but I heard varying reports of horror in the early days of the summer when the east coast of the US endured 45 days and nights of rain. Beach town stores the entire length of the Atlantic coast sold out of decks of cards, board games, firewood and electric blankets. Well extra blankets anyway. What a different story was being told here on the island. I understand that our northern neighbors of the Scottish persuasion have found all the sweltering particularly difficult. Seems that they didn’t know where to put their cardigans when they were being shed, by the shed load. So it does appear that the oft quoted summer of ‘77 has been resoundingly replaced by the summer of ‘03. Never before have I seen a more contented group of locals. And just as the nights are beginning to think about drawing in, the BBC has succeeded in tempting me away from Mars viewing with a riveting new series. This one is a total gem. Every week the viewing public is invited to decide or at least have a hand in the fate of three completely different derelict buildings. The proceedings are officiated by a former comedian cum historic building rescuer. After being tempted with riveting historical relevance complete with exquisite camera work and probing questions we are offered a virtual tour by two young structural engineers. The male (named Ptolemy honest!) and female (named Marianne) are youngish, bookish and bounding with intelligence about dry rot and subsidence. They enthrall the viewing public as the cameras swoop through lofty flying buttresses. They don hard hats to traipse through dangerous, cavernous original glass houses and tip toe beneath hand hewn original beams while discussing the composition of walls the Normans assembled to stave off conquerors from the north. Finally, some minor celebrities make a last minute pitch for your vote by earnestly professing their passion for one of the piles of rocks after which the telephone number to SAVE THIS BUILDING is flashed on the screen. It is up to you to call and vote for the one you want to save. The final segment of the series is coming up and I have cleared my calendar. I have no idea what happens to the buildings that don’t win but I feel more personally involved than I ever have with Pop Idol or Fame Academy. For me, the whole thing is fantastic. Also just in time for winter we barely managed to get our dodgy boiler sorted out. In early June it became apparent that we were having problems keeping hot water flowing through the house. As the threat of frosts had abated and given the unusually high external temperatures, I had taken to enjoying tepid showers and making the children share the same bathwater. For unknown reasons and despite the fact that we have two monstrous water heaters housed in their very own closet, the heating had in English parlance “packed in”. This was further complicated by my and the Brit’s total ignorance of anything relating to the operation of water filled radiator heating systems. Having spent the bulk of our adult lives in California where forced air systems for heat and separate hot water heaters for water are the norm, we are sadly not well versed in the fine art of bleeding and balancing. This has put us at a great disadvantage. I had unsuccessfully battled with our builders to have a forced air system put into this house but my request was flatly refused. This is because the whole notion of forced air systems with floor vents is universally considered unhygienic in this same country that doesn’t see a problem with carpeting bathroom floors. Go figure. Anyway, after a visit last week from an expensive magician known as a plumber, things are once again “tickety boo²” I have just watched the late night news and weather and I saw the following message printed on the screen: WORSE THAN YESTERDAY. These weather people never tell you these things out right. Such damning indictments are never uttered leaving the lucky viewer to guess exactly how much worse can it be? As for me, this time I’m not bothered. Indian summer steams along and I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Got 2 go, there’s a medieval castle in Scotland that needs my 30p! About the author: Deborah S. Gale is a Pennsylvania native, loving mother of five daughters aged seven to twelve including two sets of twins. Married to a classically cynical, witty Brit with whom she enjoyed DINKY status briefly. She hasn’t held a full time bill paying or spa treatment-covering job since the children and spent most of the '90's as an expat. wife and mother in Paris and London. After 23 years of calling Silicon Valley home, she bid adieu to the South Bay in December 2000 when she made a permanent move back to the UK. She writes a regular column for the American in Britain magazine. © siliconmom
