:: Can It Really Be Summer? ::

After a pretty drab and unpleasant July, today's burst of summer weather came as something of a shock. Was the squidgy damp mess of St Swithun's Day not set to be repeated for 40 days according to the old saying? Of course I don't believe in that bullshit, but I did notice a marked inconsistency. Some people refer to this 9th century bishop, who was canonised for putting some eggs back together by the power of prayer, as St Swithin. The Grauniad concurred with the latter spelling in its net notes of two years ago...

Today also marks the first time that I have felt able to purchase an ice cream during my afternoon "constitutional", a fact which neatly coincides with the news of wacky ice-cream flavours appearing in the Orient. What started as a piece of amusement, has now turned into a quest to find and taste the bizarrest palatable ice-cream recipe available. Starting with the flavours I have tried: brown bread ice cream is surprisingly nice, even verging on delicious, and ginger ice-cream is frankly anodyne. Compare to this, the prospect of garlic ice-cream makes me retch and pumpkin ice-cream could only come from a country where stodgy orange sweet-savoury mush passes for food. Actually I have no aversion to savoury ice cream whatever - as an inter-course amuse-bouche or even a daring starter, there seems nothing wrong with making and freezing a creamy non-sweet puree for gourmet consumption. And I've often been caught noshing on a handful of frozen peas straight from the freezer. But... that garlic ice cream recipe has sugar in it! Maybe I'll just have to get my hands on an ice-cream maker and start making this Guinness-based concoction. All submissions and serious recipes considered. However, I draw the line at pilchards.

So, what to do in a hot summer city? The truly masochistic can spend all day on the tube, helping to collect tube gossip or spend a sweltering evening in the Royal Albert Hall at the Proms. Others attempting to avoid the sun's harmful rays might keep extreme pets in their tropically-heated apartments, or just settle down in front of the computer to have a wank cultivate delusions of divinity. Even if you try to get away, there's no guarantee you won't be assaulted by drunken flight attendants or made to sing karaoke every night in some hell-hole on the Costa Brava to everybody's favourite popstar. No, kids, it's safer to stay at home in The Smoke and moan about it.

So that's why I'm planning to take time off work for the first time since March and visit my mother in The Lake District next month. And, who knows? I might even be able to sneak along to Edinburgh too. Adventurous, eh?

On a final note, if you're into extreme sports, I recommend this guide to getting the largest piece of pudding. The implications for self-service cafeterias are terrifying.