Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

We have officially survived what history will likely record as the Great Wiltshire Melting Event of 2026.

The UK has just endured an unprecedented heatwave, complete with amber and red weather warnings, public infrastructure meltdowns, and temperatures that turned our stationary tin box into an accidental sous-vide cooker.
Living on-site during a renovation is an exercise in endurance at the best of times. Doing it when the caravan thermometer registers a staggering 43 degrees introduces a whole new category of domestic grit.

Here is how a week of physical dehydration, digital torture, canine pharmacology, and triumph over bare studwork played out.

The Three-Litre Miscalculation and Cyber-Warfare

The week began under a bit of a localised cloud—specifically, one trapped inside my own skull. After spending Sunday doing battle with the garden, confidently guzzling well over three litres of water, I felt like a paragon of health. Evidently, the sun laughed at my mathematics. Monday’s lingering headache was a blunt reminder that I had still managed to dehydrate myself. A strategic deployment of painkillers and a proper breakfast were called in to negotiate a ceasefire.
My physical discomfort was then beautifully compounded by my primary digital nemesis: mandatory e-learning.

Today’s riveting module was on cyber security. As I sat there in the sweltering caravan, clicking through slides on password hygiene, a wave of profound irony washed over me. I found myself genuinely contemplating whether I could deploy some advanced cyber warfare of my own—hacking into the course’s backend infrastructure simply to force-mark the entire thing as “Complete.” Sadly, my IT skills do not quite match my levels of desperation.

By afternoon, with the caravan reaching temperatures that could comfortably bake bread, I gathered up the dogs and staged a tactical evacuation. We marched along the canal towpath toward Honeystreet to meet Karen, who was enjoying a catch-up with old school friends.

The dogs deployed a highly effective cooling strategy by launching themselves into the canal at every opportunity, while I aggressively topped up my system with electrolyte-infused water. Unsurprisingly, we didn’t encounter a single soul along the water. It was manifestly far too hot for “normal” people with their “normal” dogs to be out. But then, normal people aren’t spending beautiful summer mornings sweating over corporate phishing modules in a stationary vehicle anyway.

Automotive Tetris and the 43-Degree Tactical Retreat

On Tuesday, the building site became a positive hive of high-temperature activity. The renovation hit a massive milestone with the arrival of the kitchen delivery, triggering a beautifully coordinated dance of tradesmen.

Ted was busy building the trellis at the end of the deck; Ollie was constructing the oak porch before pivoting to assemble kitchen cabinets; Oscar was threading lights into the deck steps; and Graham was installing bathroom cupboards.

Temperatures stayed stubbornly above 30 degrees with absolutely zero breeze. By 2 PM, the dogs and I hit our limit in the caravan and fled for a cooling dip in the River Avon. Later, as the sun finally shifted, Karen and I seized a rare moment of calm to plant up another deck border while the dogs chilled on the grass.

By Wednesday, it was all hands to the pump. Graham’s team battled courageously against a brutal 34-degree peak to get the kitchen in. I slipped away to table tennis practice but had to stage an early exit; the heat and the constant construction noise were severely rattling poor Moog. Our Border Collie is suffering from his nerves more and more, losing weight and panicking at sudden sounds. He clearly needs a proper vet visit soon.

With no way to escape the stifling conditions inside—the caravan thermometer registered a horrifying 43 degrees at 7 PM—Karen and I enacted a tactical retreat, sitting out on the deck until 10 PM just to breathe.

The Cave, The Cancelled Coaching, and The Seven-Week Triumph

Thursday brought a historic milestone: the hottest June day ever recorded in the UK at 37.1 degrees. Being outside was completely unbearable. I abandoned the caravan by 10 AM to seek out shade in the woods to work, though even under the canopy, the humidity was stifling.

After lunch, we officially took refuge at Lyn and Steve’s. I often joke that Steve lives in a cave because their living room is incredibly dark and completely lacks outside windows, but today that specific architectural design choice was an absolute godsend.

With the country grinding to a halt under an unprecedented red weather warning, and realising the local leisure centre would be a literal furnace, I made the executive decision to cancel Geoff’s table tennis coaching session.

But back at the house, amidst the melting infrastructure, we achieved total victory. Graham and his team officially finished installing the kitchen, packed up their tools, and cleared out. After seven intense weeks, their work here is done. Apart from a few minor odds and sods, we can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Decorating starts next week, followed by the flooring in mid-July.

Damp Squibs and Calm-Down Drugs

The intense heatwave broke on Friday, but it didn’t go quietly. At 2 AM, a spectacular light show of lightning woke me. I lay there hoping the storm would clear the air and bring some desperate rain, but it turned out to be a complete damp squib. An hour of flashing, next to no rainfall, and the oppressive heat refused to budge. Realising sleep was a lost cause, I gave up and got up. By 5 AM, my normal wake-up time, the lack of sleep caught up with me and I found myself nodding off over my laptop, necessitating a defeated two-hour return to bed.

The primary mission of the day, however, was Moog. The poor lad was completely run-down from the cumulative stress of caravan living and the heat. I took him to a homeopathic vet who prescribed some much-needed “calm the f*** down” remedies alongside some proper sedation for when Border Collie life becomes too much to bear.

Thankfully, by 6 PM, the air finally cleared, dropping back to traditional, comfortable June temperatures. Normal life could officially resume.

The Modern-Day Scythe and the Porch Solidarity

Saturday arrived with a beautifully cooler forecast and a task manager absolutely loaded with jobs.

First up: picking up my new garden strimmer—officially my second weapon of choice, ranking just behind the chainsaw. The long grass and overgrown plants put up zero resistance against this modern-day scythe. After a deeply satisfying 30-minute blitz, I ran out of fodder and reluctantly retired it to the shed before I accidentally hacked down something Karen would make me deeply regret.

Meanwhile, Darren the roofer was on-site installing the roof on the oak porch. His mate had let him down, leaving him to tackle the job entirely alone in the aftermath of the heat. I made sure to keep him topped up with endless tea, a lunchtime doughnut, and moral support. I did offer to lend a physical hand, though I wasn’t entirely sure how a strimmer could assist with roofing logistics.

By 5 PM, the list was ticked off. For the first time in months, the exterior is beginning to look like a proper house again, and a little less like a chaotic building site.

The Pink Book and the Sunday Feast

We concluded the week with our traditional Sunday escape. This week it was to my Mum’s to break free from the confines of the caravan. As always, the standard pre-cursor to our arrival was her classic disclaimer:

“I haven’t done anything special for lunch, it’s been far too hot to cook.”

My expectations were duly set for a modest two-vegetable layout and perhaps a single choice of dessert. Naturally, I was completely correct. Mum proceeded to pull out a spectacular roast gammon with potatoes, carrots, beans, and cauliflower cheese, casually announcing it was one of her favourite meals to prepare. A delicious trifle finished the job. Thank goodness it was too hot to cook; I couldn’t possibly have managed any more!

The toll for this feast was extracted immediately after lunch. Out came the dreaded “Pink Book”—her ultimate ledger of accumulated tech crises.

The “Mark” section contained a mountain of digital conundrums that predictably baffle an 87-year-old lady: complications with the TV, the iPad, the iPhone, and WhatsApp. She does brilliantly, listens intently, and takes diligent notes. However, I know full well that the moment the weather clears, she’ll be straight back out in her garden and will completely forget the lot.

Still, look on the bright side: it guarantees me another spectacular Sunday roast the next time the technology inevitably defeats her again.

Rinse and repeat…