Flaming June? Stand by for Soggy August

From Beer, Devon

DEAR Tony, of course it's not your fault. There is no connection between your invasion of Iraq in 2003 and the chaos that has followed. Nor is there any connection between the UK debt crisis and all those billions of pounds you and Gordon borrowed. And there is definitely no connection between the rise of Ukip and your policy of open-door immigration. It's all just pure coincidence. Yours sincerely, Alastair Campbell.

A READER takes me to task for suggesting the England flag is simply a red cross on a white background. He says if you are supporting the national team (I understand there is some sort of football event going on in Brazil), then the flag should also contain the word "England." The flag flying bravely above the pub opposite our holiday cottage is flying a St George cross, with three lions in the centre and "Carlsburg" in one corner. One nation, so many flags.

INCIDENTALLY, why is the BBC suddenly referring to Brazil as Brasil? Zilly Zodz.

IT SEEMS we are in for the sort of sultry, bone-dry, twinkling-sea, picnic-on-the-beach sort of week that once gave us the term "flaming June." I'd like to think it's all to do with global warming and it's here to stay, and that phew-what-a-scorcher Devon holidays like this will soon become the norm. But I daresay by the time the schools break up, so will the weather and sodden chip papers will be blowing along the beaches of Bournemouth and Barmouth in a drenching gale as Mum, Dad and the kids huddle in the rain in their cagoules. To make it worse, some know-all at the Met Office will be telling you the August icebergs in Rhyll are actually the result of higher than average temperatures in Greenland. Flaming June, Bloody July, Soggy August. Then again, you may get lucky.

YOU see lots of dogs on beaches, but never a cat. Discuss.

THIS week's public-health advice from the Food Standards Agency is not to wash chickens before you cook them. Damn right. They peck your soap to pieces and get feathers all over the shower.

MEANWHILE, things have changed down here on the Jurassic Coast. The outsize gents' shop in Beer whose closure I lamented this time last year has become a smart wine bar. While a window display of fine claret is never going to be as entertaining as a pair of enormous size-16 trainers and khaki shorts that would fit a baby elephant, at least someone is making a living.

THE pub over the road is transformed utterly. A dark old bar with stained-glass partitions which had been occupied by generations of dark old fishermen with tobacco-stained fingers has been facelifted for the 21st century as a chic dining place, all fitted carpets and neat oak tables. You wonder where the money comes from for such a magnificent transformation, then check your bill and find a half-pint of bitter is now £2.

YOU can't help noticing how many of the second-hand volumes in the Beer church book stall are do-it-yourself manuals. The connection, presumably, is that the name of Our Saviour is uttered more often in DIY than in just about any other human endeavour, and certainly with feeling. There is probably more religious language in 20 minutes of plumbing than in a whole Sunday in church.

GREAT mysteries of the digital age. Why is it that a nano-second after you hit the off button on your computer, you suddenly remember what it was you wanted to look up?