I haven’t felt heat like it since we were in Sardinia last year. That dry soaks-you-right-through-to-the-bones heat of the Mediterranean, which makes mornings sparkle, early afternoons in the dusty city unbearable, and evenings soft and luxurious.
I’m told we’re lucky to experience such heat in San Francisco, though I would be feeling a bit luckier if I were lying by an infinity pool drinking caipirinhas. Instead I’m either shepherding the Minx from trolley bus to cable car, or chasing her round the Bay Cruise boat, or, worse still, across the Golden Gate Bridge. Tourism wih a baby really is not all it’s cracked up to be and with the Husband working all day and schmoozing by night I haven’t yet been to a single groovy shop or gallery.
Am seething with frustration. ‘Snot fair.
