Unhappy Campers.

I once heard someone phone into the radio, during a debate on climate change, to say “Global warming, we could do with it. I’d loveto have a Mediterranean climate. We could do with a bit of global warming.” That man was an idiot. We’ve had a week of summer weather this year, and that was back in the spring. Everyone predicted back then that this would be the hottest summer on record, and it may yet be, but so far it’s been the wettest. For some reason I thought July would be a turning point, but it’s still rubbish. And I know this is pensioner-talk to be moaning about the weather, but really, this is enough: trapped indoors for hour after hour, with only so many rooms I can go in; there’s only so much consolation on an mp3.

I’m not the worst effected though. Fuzz and Pele returned from Glastonbury last week with suspected trenchfoot (four of them). Last year we’d all made the plan to go together, but Topper and Cobb have money issues – job and no respectively – and I have no desire to sit in a field surrounded by hippies who want to convince me of the power of ley lines. I watched it on TV. Much to my surprise, our Arctic Monkeys whacked it out, without the need for costumes or fireworks. The bands that did that just made themselves look smaller. Norman sat with me, as he does. He liked Shirley Bassey, and wasn’t sure about the African bands. Looking at the sea of dirty faces, he pronounced “camping’s for fools”.

And so it is – more so for the couple that got trampled to death by cows while they slept in their tent. That happened not far from us, just into the peaks. The farmer's trying not to get sued. Then there was the couple who got trapped potholing after all the rain. And ramblers generally. I might be bored, but I’d rather be indoors than outdoorsy.