Well it is the weekend and the sun is out in England. This means it is time for British men - who for the rest of the year cannot manage to boil an egg on their state-of-the-art stove, in their super-modern kitchen, and even have problems making toast in a toaster - to get it into their heads that they are expert in cooking a 16 ounce steak over an open fire in the middle of the garden. They jealously guard the sacred flame of which they are keeper (well they are after 30 minutes of struggle to get the damn thing going) and snarl at any woman approaching within two yards of their fiery property. All the women have to do is butter 50 rolls, make up three different kinds of salad, go out and buy paper plates and plastic knives and forks, fold paper napkins, bake a cake for dessert, and ensure an unceasing supply of nicely chilled beer to the boss chef.
And then it rains.
June 1st. The British summer is here.