Thanks to our petite and bijou footy blog, Next Goal Wins, I know that the last four weeks have gone from cold to fair to sunny to bloomin' boiling. If you consider Tuesdays only, that is. With the odd Wednesday thrown in.

Couldn't play yesterday, in the slot we've been using for about the last 18 months, 'cos someone else had the foresight to book the pitch. I used to make the booking myself, then stopped when we failed to spot anyone else using the pitch, ever. Felt like we had squatters' rights when we saw other kick and rushers on our hallowed all-weather surface, but they wouldn't budge. I dunno, the sun pops out from behind some clouds and suddenly every Tomaszewski, Dickov and Harry Kewell dons a pair of shorts.

Because the sun is much too sultry
And one must avoid its ultry-violet ray
— Noel Coward, Mad Dogs And Englishmen

Fun and frantic 4-a-side today, as ever. Only three of us (injuries, etc.: certain sides would have not played, or perhaps decided to play, lose, then ask for a replay) as opposed to five of them: luckily we were able to nick (arguably) their best player, who happened to be wearing the wrong colour shirt, though that didn't stop us failing to score the first five goals. Then we finally put one in the bag of the onion bag, so to speak, and they visibly wilted -- actually we all were, by that point.

Back in the changing rooms, glowing from our narrow victory, I knew what it was to be a faulty radiator in the back room, the kind you can't turn off. Red face, red torso, and well red generally. That'll be the flush of success.