Black Swans and Summer Sun

It is, apparently, going to get to 102 degrees this afternoon. If ever proof was needed of global warming, then this is it. I live in England, and though it may be the fairest of isles, in my experience the natural climate is one of rain and perpetual cold. So, you see, it must be global warming - it hasn't rained for a least a week.

But this is all good news; this afternoon I'm off to Market Deeping (Peterborough, possibly, but who knows) to watch some cricket. Tarantino and Freddie (though not Flintoff, unfortunately) are debutants, which has provided some excellent sulking opportunities for Ben ("I'm. Not. Going. Can't. Be. Arsed."). But it means ice cream, and sunbathing, and infrequently seen friends, so I should have fun. And then, post-work on Saturday and Sunday (then probably Monday and Tuesday too) I'm off to RHS. And that is always a more than adequate way to spend the summer, lying on the grass banks by the Orwell, developing skin cancer.

Then it's Mexico! Sombreros and straw donkeys - nothing better on earth. Not a single thing. Unfortunately it's straight bck to the grind as soon as we land home; not only work, but work experience at Radio Suffolk (I've finally managed it) await me as I walk through the arrival lounge at Gatwick. Probably about ten hours late, but nevertheless...

And quickly I'd just like to recommend my two albums of the month: The Eraser, by Thom Yorke, in all it's Radiohead-esque splendour and edginess, and Trouble by Ray Lamontagne - a proper, raw, folksy delight. Though Lily Allen is amusing for a while, she doesn't quite have the hook for me. She does wear nice dresses, though...