This week, apart from trying to win the Euromillions, I have endeavoured to stay cool – with minimal success on both fronts. The Met Office warned us last week that this one would be a scorcher and they spoke truly. It’s been horrible and quite enervating. There are times when I’ve had barely enough energy to stagger from my swivel chair to my recliner for an extended siesta.
Lisbon and the north have been even horribler and conditions in the Alentejo, just across the mountains, have been unspeakable. This region simmers in summer and freezes in winter. Little wonder that so few of the slaves condemned to work the mines there in ages past lived to enjoy their pensions! An email just in from the Portuguese Met Office (with which I’ve registered) informs us that March, April and May this year were hotter and drier than average. I could have told them that myself.
As I was saying, I have been doing my best to avoid melting into a puddle and then evaporating. The fan in the study whirrs back and forth through a continuous arc with a click-squeak, click-squeak to mark its passage. The shutters are closed against the sun. Raymond sprawls on the tiles under Jonesy’s desk, the coolest place that he can find. Ono and Mary prefer something a little softer close by.
Jones herself, whose comfort zone extends into higher temps than mine, doesn’t seem as afflicted although she's gone decidedly summery. (I know some people will argue that like other females, she simply doesn’t make a fuss!) I literally break out in spots. There’s a spectacular rash of pink itchy lumps orbiting my tummy and bottom and extending up my sides. At first Jonesy put them down to bedbugs or worse – washing everything in sight just in case – but these spots come and go with the heat not the bugs.
Speaking of which - the mosquito squadrons have arrived. I abhor mosquitos as much as I hate the heat they thrive in. Although the blighters will ignore a tender Jonesian limb flung across the bed, they will burrow under the blankets to snack on a Benson ankle. At night, I turn on both the air-conditioner and the fan, the latter to confuse the mosquitos. I find this works quite well.
The best place to stay cool is in the car. We almost get shoved aside by the torrent of dogs trying to clamber in with us. Tuesday morning we took Barri along for her rabies injection, as required by law, before delivering all seven doggy log-books to the parish offices, which issue the annual licences. Jones supposes that we are among the few people in Espargal who license their dogs. It may be so; I don’t know. Certainly, nobody has ever come around asking to see the documents. Maybe that’s because visitors get such a barky welcome.
It’s hard to know whether we’re training the dogs or they us. For ages, Ono has slept in the bedroom and Raymond in the study upstairs, with the rest either downstairs or on the enclosed patio. Then Mary made it clear that she also wanted to be an upstairs dog and prevailed – against Jones’s wishes. Since our return from holiday, Raymond has insisted on sleeping beside the bed, where Jones falls over him at night. And now young Barri is asserting her rights. Giving way is the price of peace. Otherwise it’s scratchings, whimperings and whinings. I guess it’s like raising kids.
Wednesday we drove to Faro to get Vodafone to register the new 4G-compatible sim-cards that they’d sent us in the post. They warned us that our current mobile phone sim-cards would become unusable when 4G is switched on at the end of the month. I don’t pretend to understand what difference another G will make but we’ve inserted the new cards and they work well enough.
Still on matters vaguely technical, I was quite surprised to get a couple of emails from a neighbour, recommending an obscure slimming product. But since I’ve made no secret of my attempts to shed a few pounds, I thought no further of them. Until, that is, I got a third email plugging another weird substance. I alerted the neighbour, who had unwittingly become the victim of an Adware infection that was firing off emails in his name. The interesting part of the story is that his slimming emails went to other people as well, including a portly friend who is exceedingly sensitive about her shape. He hasn’t heard back from her.
Another story comes from Barbara’s brother, Llewellyn, who flew to Prague to join his wife, who is there on business. He stopped at a cash machine at Prague airport to draw the local currency, before catching a bus into town. Several stops along the route, he became aware that his suitcase was no longer accompanying him. The poor fellow leapt off the bus and made his way back to the airport as fast as he could.
By the time he arrived back, most of the desks had closed for the night, and he could find no-one to help him in English. Nor could he remember exactly where the cash machine had been located. His attention was drawn to a group of officials at the far end of the terminal – where he found both the cash machine and his suitcase – surrounded by some very suspicious and displeased policemen. Llewellyn says they were ready to give him a mouthful but were moved to pity by his obvious delight and relief.
Wednesday night: We’re sad about Portugal’s exit from the Euro 2012 football finals. They did a great job in holding Spain to a 0-0 draw, and it was fate rather than feet that finally decided the outcome. At least they can return with their heads held high.
Thursday night: Germany out! I can scarcely believe it. Sorry Berliners! We know how you feel. If the Italians are as sprightly again on Sunday, the final should be a humdinger.
Friday: It’s marginally cooler. Hallelujah! There’s a brisk wind moaning through the shutters and tousling the tree tops. Jones is doing her thing downstairs. With Natasha’s departure for a holiday in Russia, the chores have grown. And we’re having the neighbours around for tea this afternoon. I will have to cut my siesta short. Life is tough.
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