Shall we just stop pretending it's summer?

I was thrilled this morning to fit into some pre-baby cords, until I realised it was in fact the end of July and I should be wafting about in linen shorts, not wrapped up in cords and a jumper. My daughter's school summer dresses remained in the wardrobe undisturbed all term, the same tube of suncream has languished in the first aid drawer for the last three years and the cute little Legionnaire-style sunhat I bought for my baby son was a triumph of optimism over experience.

This on a morning that finds the Met Office with its tail between its legs, having rather overstated - for the sake of headlines - our chances of that now famous "barbecue summer". But then maybe they knew what they were talking about, with the great British barbecue featuring the traditional dash in through the back door, table'n'all. Our one barbecue so far this summer featured cardigan-creep, where one by one everyone acquired an extra layer, followed by a nice warming cup of coffee, and finally a blanket.

It makes a mockery of watching Valentine Warner creating his sumptuous picnic food, although it was worth it just for the fairy tits, in an appropriate shade of wind-chapped lilac. Now I would like this 'summer' nonsense to be over: let the nights draw in, let the fire burn, let the winter spices suffuse the house. I made leeks in ham with a cheese sauce last night, a great winter warmer. Tonight it will be pork with apple in cider - sod the Pimms!