I’ve been remiss in not posting for over a month. I was going to write about our lovely holiday in Greece, (I sometimes wonder why we bother to go anywhere else) but that can wait a bit longer.

After a frenetic summer, partly by choice and partly by necessity, Anne and I are now in La Bréchoire, where it has been very, very hot.

I mean roasting hot

The temperature has risen day by day, until even sitting in the shade becomes almost unbearable. This heatwave will end, as they always do, but it was close to 40C yesterday; in some French cities, such as Toulouse, that figure has been surpassed on several occasions. We are getting used to being informed that temperature records have once again been broken. Meanwhile TV news reports deadly wildfires, from Greece to Canada.

We arrived a week ago, taking our usual Portsmouth to Saint-Malo ferry. How many times have we made that trip? Over 100? The first was 33 years ago, a few days after we were married.

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Talking of which, we enjoyed a memorable 33rd anniversary on 4 August, starting with a visit to the British Museum, followed by cocktails at the Coral Room in the Bloomsbury Hotel and dinner at Theo Randall’s at the Intercontinental (both recommended).

As it was a fine evening we strolled along Hyde Park to the Albert Hall, to hear the brilliant Yuja Wang play Rachmaninov, followed by the BBC Singers performing Belshazzar’s Feast. A taxi home put an end to a suitably expensive day out!

Since we returned from Greece in early July we have both socialised furiously.

Anne took part in an informal piano concert at St Stephen’s in South Dulwich, arranged by her teacher. The dozen or so performers were all Roksana’s pupils (of various abilities and stages of development), plus Roksana herself.

Performing solo in public – even for friends and family – is a nerve-wracking business. It is a brave thing to do, even for an accomplished musician.

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I have met up, separately, with two people I worked with at Methuen when I came to London in 1984, and three ex-colleagues at the British Library. As another old friend put it, rather ominously, you never know when you see someone if it will be for the last time!

Good memories, though we often remember different things

Anne and I visited the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, then headed for 120 Fenchurch Street, where you can enjoy a cocktail and a free rooftop view of the city.

A couple of days later we took a day-trip to Burgess Hill to see Russell and Candy’s new house, and celebrate their son’s first birthday.

Anne’s friend Jo from Toulouse came to stay for a couple of days, and we all went to a brilliant production of Guys and Dolls at the Bridge Theatre, taking in the newly re-opened National Portrait Gallery on the way.

And there’s more

We know three couples who all live near each other in Somerset. We very rarely get to see them, so we drove over for three days in Dinnington and Tintinhull. There are so many beautiful churches and grand houses in the area, such as this one at Mapperton.

And there’s the cider farms.

Just because we could, and to avoid the A303, we returned to London via Avebury, which I have no memory of having visited before.

Then it was our turn again to have guests, so we went with John and Judy to see the Berthe Morisot show at the Dulwich Picture Gallery (again).

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There were two trips to Wirral within 10 days, to see Mum and deal with the family home in Upton. Anne and I took the opportunity to see the interior of St George’s Hall and the Medieval and Renaissance rooms at the Walker Art Gallery, which finally do justice to a world-class collection.

Then a day trip to Chester, which we have not visited for decades, to walk the town and see the Cathedral with its gorgeous 14th-century wood carvings, followed by a boozy evening with Shân.

Finally, just before we left for London, by a stroke a luck, there was a Viking festival at Upton’s Warwick Park – which allowed me to meet up with Professor Stephen Harding, scientist, Viking scholar and avid Tranmere fan, who was in my class at Overchurch Primary School in the 60s.

Amidst all the fun and games there has been a major development. In the comparatively short time since it went it on the market my parents’ house in Upton has been sold. Hence the two journeys north last month.

The sale was completed as we drove through France

Friends have mostly assumed that it would be a sad experience for me, or perhaps they thought that it would be better to express sympathy just in case it were wanted! In truth I feel a huge sense of relief. The sale has realised £200,000, which is useful though not crucial at this stage in my elderly mother’s life. Just as important, though, is that I no longer have to worry about the maintaining a house that is over 200 miles from where I live. And hanging on to an empty house when other people need somewhere to live is just daft.

Being naturally pessimistic I always felt that, despite our buyer having already sold his house and meeting our asking price, something would happen to stop or postpone the sale. But it didn’t, and so I faced the decision of what to take back with me in the Golf Estate.

Yes, there have been melancholy moments. That house, as I’ve said before, was where I grew up from the age of six. In the end I decided to abandon my childhood toys and books, with a few exceptions. I do not have anyone to pass them on to and our house in London is already full of things I’ll never need again.

I am sentimental, but only to a point. Dad’s carefully preserved collection of slides and photos mostly went into the bin, along with Mum’s souvenir tea towels, postcards and holiday brochures, the ancient bedding and the chipped crockery. Other stuff I left to the new owner, with his consent.

I shed no tears; it had to be done

When Mum dies I’ll have no compelling reason to go to the Wirral again. I might still want to visit but I am not sure. Next time I go up, I’ll be staying at the Premier Inn.