Sandra Harris Writes

WE’RE HAVING A HEATWAVE… BY SANDRA HARRIS. © I know I’m going to come across as grumpy and ungrateful now but I’m really not enjoying this heatwave. Ah, don’t be such an auld buzzkill, you might say. Surely be to God you’re happy for the first daycent (Oirish pronunciation) bit of sunshine we’ve had all year, you might say. Surely you don’t begrudge people a bit of relief from the unrelenting misery that’s been 2026 so far, with constant wars, spiralling grocery and electricity prices and the general breakdown of society that seemed to start with bloody COVID and will surely end with an apocalyptic style flood/earthquake/tsunami that sets us back about a bazillion years and forces us all into a hard reset for mankind, you might say. Well, of course I don’t begrudge people a bit of relief from the unrelenting misery that’s been 2026 so far, etc., etc. I know kids have been having a ball with their paddling pools, ice-creams and spontaneous, unscheduled trips to the beach instead...

  AND NOW FOR SANDRA HARRIS’S DIARY… BY SANDRA HARRIS. © One of the inescapable things about being a writer is the urge to unburden yourself of your doings, thoughts and feelings on a regular basis to your public, by which I mean the handful of people who might be kind enough to read your blog. Enjoy my free unbosomings pertaining to the month of February of which we are, thankfully, about to take our leave. I hate February, and normally view it with the distaste which one might normally reserve for, say, a persistent itch on the sweaty underside of Satan’s ball-bag, or something equally odious. (And I’m not even gonna mention Valentine’s Day  and the Bridget Jones’s Diary film series coming to an end forever.) For one thing, the weather was diabolical, or Dia-bollock-le, if we keep with the theme of the Devil’s genitals. For about ten days, there wasn’t so much as a ray of sunshine. Now, I normally consider myself a Goth who lives only for the short, dark days of wint...