I don't want to turn this into the Blog of Death, but I took some nice photos at the churchyard in Denham this morning. I was early for a lunch date, so I wandered down the street, which you'll remember from this photo shoot, to see what was blooming. The rose bushes were planted as memorials for parishioners who've died, much prettier than stone cold monuments, don't you think?
Behind the church I noticed this row of graves, lined up in regimental order. And on the other side, Denham's contribution to the Great War:
It's a hot day, the hottest all year, so I wore a dress for the first time in two years. Wearing dresses makes me feel like a fourth grader: I want to wear a pair of shorts underneath.
The temperature hit 28C today—that's 82F. (28=82? Is that the way that works?) Ohmygod, we are so wilting here in unairconditioned Southern England. The dog doesn't even want to go for a walk it's so hot. She pretends not to see the squirrels at the feeder. Maybe she'll give it a go when the weather cools, she tells me.
I used to have a pair of shorts. I hope I didn't give them to Oxfam—today is the perfect day for shorts. At lunch one of my friends told us about seeing Prince Charles at a polo match yesterday. After that, she said, three streakers ran out on the field, and from there our conversation turned to nude beaches.
Not a bad idea, actually.
