Hotter than pheasant dirt

Were this phrase to exist in Italian it might be the time to use it.

The pheasant - fagiano - has been around ever since we arrived. Often with his consort. Recently he has taken to coming into the garden to have vigourous dust baths under the shade trees - although here he was not quite in the shade.

They are joined by a pair of partridge who scuttle about the garden despite the presence of two cats.

Cleaning today was the main task before it simply got too hot to do anything except drink cold red wine and fall asleep. I did drive over to the Barberino di Mugello outlet to try and buy a pair of trousers for tomorrow's meeting about the house. 

Unfortunately the recent sales had emptied the shops of nearly all long trousers of any sort of my size. In the end I found some rather nice linen trousers at Brookes Brothers. I may actually die of heat stroke wearing them although the meeting will hopefully be concluded before the bowl-like furnace of central Florence reaches melting point.

I note that in Spain there is a chance the all time high temp of 47 point- something might be broken. I really do not care much for the glee in the weather-peoples' voices when they say that the 'heat continues to build over Southern Europe'.

Enough building. Enough heat.

Postscript on those flying ants from last night. Despite the mosquito screen there are more FAs tonight. I think they are emerging from behind the skirting boards on the ground floor. Little piles of dust and a white powdery substance like they are mini-POWs in The Great Escape. Imagine trying to make trousers for ants. Good job The Boss is away. She'd be going mental.