and I file a counter suit…

Let the record show: summer is five days late to its own funeral.

I woke up this morning to a positively cheeky 18°C — a good ten degrees shy of the sauna we’ve been living in for weeks — and the news that thunderstorms rolled through overnight like an uninvited houseguest who at least had the decency to leave before breakfast. Ten degrees. Overnight. In the south of France. Somewhere, a lavender field is quietly panicking.

So: is summer over? I refuse to dignify the question with a serious answer, because I am, as of today, taking absolutely no chances. This is not resignation. This is strategy.

The changing of the guard

Today my spouse’s old school friends — a delightful squadron of Englishwomen who have spent the past however-many days recreating a boarding school reunion with rosé — pack up and head home, taking with them, I can only assume, several bottles of my best intentions regarding a quiet week.

Tomorrow the baton passes: our eldest son and his partner arrive for a few days, presumably wondering why everyone keeps talking about a “cold snap” while wearing a light cardigan and looking smug about it.

And then — then — we make our move. If the sun has decided the south of France is no longer worth its time, we shall simply go and find it ourselves.

Next stop: Mallorca

Today’s assignment

Before any of that, though, I have a task, and it is, I want to be clear, a serious one requiring focus, dedication, and possibly a notebook: drafting the itinerary. Which is to say — researching bars and restaurants to discover on the island. Someone has to do it. I have selflessly volunteered.

Consider this the meteorological equivalent of hedging your bets: pack a jumper, wave off the English contingent, welcome the next wave of visitors, and quietly build a spreadsheet of tapas bars just in case the sun really has clocked out early this year.

Mallorca, we’re coming for you — and we’re bringing an appetite.

Return to Mission Control