Woken up on Monday morning by my own resident Victor Meldrew giving his unvarnished opinion of the meteorological abilities of the BBC. Monday’s forecast – sun; Monday’s weather – rain. (Sometimes I think it’d be less angst making just hanging a strip of seaweed up outside the back door, and probably as accurate.) We’re not such a boring couple that the weather is our only topic of conversation; still, with Greenbelt and Reading festivals coming up, I’m sure we’re not the only people with an eye to the skies at the moment.
Never mind, I’m prepared for anything. Mr M has (reluctantly) agreed to bring along a jacket and I’m still hoping to persuade him that trousers, not shorts are A Good Idea. Son, who is still recovering from a nasty cold after his epic French camping trip, has actually asked to borrow one of my woolly base layers for Reading. Luckily (for him), I managed to rake out a suitably innocuous black fleecy top. (For one horrible moment I thought he might have to make do with one of my lacy black M & S thermal numbers. I’m sure he’d prefer to catch pneumonia!)