I don't think I can make it.

The Good Lady called feebly from a deckchair positioned in the leafy shaded part of the garden.

Ach don't be daft lass. It's just a bit sunny.

I swigged the last of my beer and motioned for one of the pesky kids to rack me up another from the freezer.

One of them scampered off to fetch it. In the searing bright light of the afternoon sun, it was hard to see which one, maybe it was number two?

No, honestly. It's never been this hot. It's crazy. What is it now, forty, fifty degrees?

She flapped a hand limply at her face as if sarcastically waving goodbye to herself.

My eyes rolled like balls on a roulette wheel.

It's only 25°c. Piece of piss. Just pretend you are Spanish. Without the stealing people's stuff part that is.

I laughed like a loon thinking of the mad thieving Spanish.

That's a terrible thing to say. You know I don't like it when you say stuff like that?

The Good Lady chided me with a look that made her resemble an old slipper with the sole hanging loose at the front.

Sorry chick but it's true. Remember that dude, Paxton? He stole twenty quid from me.

I glowered blackly at the thought.

Oh for fuck sake. Paxton was Scottish!!

The Good Lady snapped rather impatiently.

Perhaps the heat was getting to her.

Milady, I can assure you, Paxton was as Spanish as they come.

I tapped the side of my head knowingly like Eddie Murphy in that film where he pretended to be fat and still funny.

He was from Edinburgh you tit!

The Good Lady hauled herself up through the hot and humid air and stood above me scowling.

Please, Daddy-Bear, can we stop with the generalisations about people. I know you don't really mean it but that's how things start. Paxton was as Scottish as you or I?

She hoofed out a big snort down her nose at me.

I raised my hand up to stop her right there but it wobbled about alarmingly and then flopped on my face.

Hey, how many beers you actually had?

She said, peering closely at me.

Paxshon was Spanish, because... Wait, was he Spanish or wash that Blair-Bear-Sore-Bum?

I felt strangely groggy as if I had had ten beers.

Oh my god, you are drunk! HA! You have had the kids running back and forth fetching you beers all afternoon! How many have you had?

The Good Lady was grinning now, occasionally darting forward and poking my pink slightly sunburned belly. For some reason, my normal ninja-like reflexes weren't catching or stopping her. Instead, my hand floated about weakly like Britney Spears's career.

I dunno? It's sunny?

As I slurred the words, the mumpy faced child came running up and slapped a cold one in my hand.

The Good Lady promptly whipped it away before my fingers could close on its sweet cold goodness.

Dearie me. Off to bed, go on!

She got me up and shoo'd me toward the house.

I staggered off, trying my best to move in a straight line.

She was right of course. I was drunk. Amazingly so. Then again, she was always right. She was lovely. And beautiful.

Like the Spanish.