SO we seem to be getting summer in instalments. Gone are those long unbroken runs of wall-to-wall sunshine.

One day it’s the South of France, the next it’s the South Pole. The household wardrobe can’t keep up.

My bottom wardrobe drawer is a microcosm to the South Lakes ‘summer’ – waterproofs and shorts together.

Bank Holiday comes along with hot weather and I naively expose the smallest bit of flesh.

I end up with a neck that looks like it's been whipped and a red raw patch on my ankle bone. Tantastic!

I also had a dodgy stomach the night after my barbecue.

The following day, I moaned about it to next door.

‘It's only the second barbecue we’ve had this year as well’.

He dutifully volleyed a moan back: ‘We’ve only cut our grass three times.’ We both tutted. The weather is a national disgrace.

This upset stomach – it wasn’t the burgers I cooked. I know this, because I incinerate mine inside and out.

They go on as prime tender cuts and come off like Hob Nobs after a nuclear war. It’s fear that makes me cook them like that - fear of poisoning the kids.

I’m head of the barbecue. I’m in charge. I’m the fire-starter – twisted burger burner. I delegated authority for one single burger to the Mother Superior and look what happens. I end up with a summer version of the Norovirus.

We also had a disagreement.

Me: ‘Let’s get the tent out in the garden!’ Her: ‘No let’s get it out tomorrow.’ I was already up the loft.

She read out the instructions and took the lead while I (under the influence) dangerously swung long telescopic poles around and nearly put the kids’ eyes out.

The following day, we had Tent Disagreement Part Two.

Her: ‘Let’s get the tent down today.’ Me: ‘No, I want it out.’ It got taken down. I don’t like taking it down. It’s like trying to stuff a parachute in your wallet.

We’re going camping for real soon.

Forecast: Stormy.