Tales from a French heatwave: the Boris who came to tea
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 ...