Too darned hot!

Over this side of the pond they use the Centigrade scale these days, though those of us old enough to remember real money still double it and add thirty to make it sound more impressive. But however you count it, the temperature down in south-west France last week was off any scale I've experienced before. And if by some chance you were in the Arizona desert or the plains of Canada at the same time as I was, you'll know that's pretty hot, especially when you factor in a level of humidity those places never see. Too darned hot, as the immortal Mr Porter once put it.

Still, with a wide-brimmed hat, a pair of shades and plenty of sunblock, there was plenty to see and otherwise experience. Wine, for instance. And chocolate. Both together, on one occasion, made all the more luscious by the addition of very efficient air-conditioning. And a lovely boulangerie just two minutes' leisurely amble from the house we rented. (Even at breakfast o'clock a leisurely amble was all we could manage in that heat.) And then there was Pizza Eric, which became our landmark whenever we raised the energy to leave the town and had to negotiate the rond-points and narrow streets to get back again. (When I say narrow... think of the smallest car you ever saw and tuck the wing mirrors in; you'll just about avoid scraping the walls on either side, especially if you drive like I do.)

Where was I? Oh yes, Pizza Eric. It was really called Pizz'Eric, (you have to say it with a French accent) but we're crass Brits. It was maybe three minutes' leisurely amble. And it wasn't all pizza, though they were pretty darned good, and according to the menu there were over a hundred topping variations to choose from. They also offered brochettes, kebabs to you or me, cooked in the same wood-fired oven as the pizzas and served with fries and a generous helping of salad. Well, that took care of three evening meals. And I haven't even started on the ice cream. After the bounty of Pizza Eric, we couldn't; that was another night.

You could say it was a holiday of memorable moments, interspersed with lolling around being too hot, with a stack of great books at the ready. I got through five – well, four and half; I finished the fifth on the train journey home. I knew four would be great, because I took them with me. The fifth was a surprise, and a total delight.

The four were an early Reacher which I unexpectedly found I hadn't read; the fifth in Peter May's delicious Enzo series, which gets better and better, and I can hardly wait to read the sixth; the most recent E J Copperman in my collection, which is a long way from being the most recently published, as it's been a while since I was in the US and s/he unaccountably doesn't have a British publisher; and a Mark Gimenez, which made me exclaim, 'That's the best thing of his I've read!' just like all the others have. Every one the kind of read you don't want to end.

The fifth... One of the many manifestations of my daughter's genius is finding unexpected gems, and this one was one of her sparkliest. The London Eye Mystery by Siobhan Dowd. Technically it's YA, bordering on children's; the protagonist/narrator is just twelve years old. But it's subtle, complex, beautifully written, a great read, all the things I love about a book and more besides, like all the best books aimed at kids. It also offers a definition of Asperger's syndrome which, although I have zilch experience in that department, struck me as so perfect that I have to share it. Ted, the narrator, describes his brain as 'a different operating system from other people's'. A little like working on Unix when most people use Windows? Feel free to shoot me down in flames, Jeff, and anyone else who actually knows about Asperger's, but to me that sounded kind of right. Anyway, Ted solves the mystery when everyone else is baffled.

Siobhan Dowd sadly died before she could write a follow-up, but I'm reliable informed the characters have been picked up by another author. I'll report back; watch this space.

So now, here I am back in the good old British summer. Temperature in the mid-teens, or low sixties for us throwbacks; light rain falling outside my window; autumn raspberry crop coming along nicely. It's lovely to go away, but it's nice to be home.

PS Thanks a million to my good friend Chris Nickson for rising to the occasion in my absence, as he so often does.

Comments

[Jeff Cohen]

E.J. has offered to send you books, Lynne...