Mad dogs and Englishmen

It's the hottest May on record (which means since the 1700s) and boy, are the English enjoying it. Rather like in Wellington, where warm, still days are also rare treasures, everyone rushes out to lie in the sun. There being no beaches to mooch on short of a train ride to Brighton, in London that means they hit the parks.

Kensington Gardens

Unlike in New Zealand though, the ozone layer still exists and no one seems to much care about skin cancer, so the parks become filled with every shade of brown, pink and pasty white. While playing football I offered some sun cream to a pale-skinned topless, red-headed Pom. "No, I want to get burnt," was his reply.

Mad dogs ...

Lewis and Lauren think the sun is, on balance, a good thing.

Last weekend also saw Manchester United seal the Premier League title in a photo finish with Chelsea. Inside a Kensington pub (deep in Chelsea territory, but filled with Man U fans), when Ryan Giggs scored the clinching goal, grown men yelled, lept out of their seats, hugged and jumped up and down. At the same time. It was a beautiful thing.

The highlight of the weekend though was frisbee at Ealing Common, which was rudely interrupted by a deluge of Noah proportions that was confined to the suburb apparently just to spite us and our guests from central London. We offered them towels and alcohol, but they will probably never visit the hinterlands again.

"Right, I think I can get two squirrels, but the rest of the animal kingdom could be a problem."