The world from my window

It’s morning and the sun is streaming through the windows. It’s early but it’s light as anything out there and in here. And cool, at least for for the moment. We both wake at the same time, the disturbed look on Mr Grigg's face reflecting exactly how I am feeling at this moment. I’ve just had a very strange dream. Remember, we are in south west France in the middle of a heatwave. Oddly and as if on cue, he says: “I had a really funny dream last night. We were hosting a dinner party. But it was a disaster.” “That’s odd,” say I, barely able to lift my head from the pillow it was so hot last night. “So did I.”   “Really? Well, I dreamt I’d invited someone you really didn’t want there as a guest.” “An ex-wife?” “No, worse than that.” “I don’t know,” I say. “Give me a clue.” And he tousles his hair and makes an idiot face. “Not Boorish Johnson?” I am intrigued. “Exactly him.” I sigh with affront and turn over to look at Mr Grigg as ...

It was the bagpipes that did it. I was feeling pretty emotional in any case, as the cavalcade trundled by, its Europeans theme reflected in some of the floats and marching bands. It was a balmy summer’s night in a small town in France, the swallows flitting overhead, laughing at and weaving in and out of the tremendous shifting shapes of sparrows roosting in the trees. A hound on a lead was howling like it belonged to the Family Baskerville. People dangled their feet in a fountain. It was gone ten-thirty and the bridge over the Aveyron was still too hot to sit on. This canacule (my newest French word) was going on for far too long. It was time the heatwave turned to dust before we did. The day before, I had melted in forty-two degrees. The carnival queen and her attendants were ultra cool, though, dancing on their tiny float and surrounded by the flags of Europe, including our own Union Flag, all fluttering alongside each other. And then there were fun...