Sun high. Hot. Not a cloud. The mercury rises and rises, heatwave headline writers twitch. A month earlier snow. Three changes of gloves in three days, goodbye heavy oven gloves, hello flimsy finger-less mitts. The hottest April day in 70 years.
Beer garden or ride? Dwelling only briefly on the name ‘beer garden’, I choose the latter, no matter how tempting and frothy and icy and delicious the former.
Evening, the earth already parched. Air warm and welcoming, hot still, naked skin so recently wrapped tight beneath many a layer now sun-kissed and tingling. Arms and legs scary white, see-through, the base on which to build razor sharp tan lines. It starts now.