Indian summer

We are having a heatwave. People are fainting from the shock of it. As for me, I am sweltering in it because I only brought winter clothes with me from Sydney.

Once it becomes obvious that the heatwave is likely to be longer than a one day wonder – two weeks is likely, according to forecasters – I decide to go on a shopping spree.

First stop Dunkeld where I recall visiting a fabulous dress shop at Christmas. Even though it is quite a drive away, I decide this shop will have a good selection on its racks.

After a stroll around all the clothes on offer I decide either the store has changed owners, or my memory has not served me well. Just about every item is (a) frumpish (b) made out of heavy wool or (c) at least three sizes too big for me. When I ask if they have any summer stock left, I’m told “och nae, it’s all winter stock now, there’s no call for summerwear.” Yes there is! Me! And did no one notice it’s 25 degrees?

I point the car towards Pitlochry, holding little hope that amongst all the touristy tartans, kilts and Pringle cashmere there will be some trendy little cotton tops and skirts.

The first three shops I venture into I am far too young for. And too small for. Is everyone in this part of the world really a size 16 or larger? With a preference for flower prints and peter pan collars?

In despair I go to The Golf Shop to see if Tom has any polo shirts. He does. But only in Large or Extra Large.

Finally, I am directed to a small boutique at the end of the village where I am thrilled to find there is still a rack of summer stock (on sale!), and some small sizes and designer names.

Curiously, the shop manager does not seem to want to sell me anything. Despite her shop being empty of customers and the rails crammed with unsold items, she does her best to dissuade me out of everything I try on.

I find a Galliano skirt and ask her what she thinks.

“It’s too tight for you across the front,” she says.

“Oh – I thought it was too big,” I say – pulling out the waist be several inches. Just to be difficult, I try on the smaller size.

“That’s too small,” she says. “You won’t be able to sit down in it.”

“It’s made of stretch fabric,” I say, and sit on a chair to prove the seams don’t snap with the strain.

Seeing that, despite her best advice, I appear keen to buy the skirt (the only summer one in the shop so out of despair I feel I have little choice) she decides to try and foist a so-called matching top onto me.

“No, sorry, it’s not me,” I say, hating the complicated layers of chiffon.

She insists I try on two variations. I hate them both and fortunately they are too large (what a surprise). I try on a t-shirt instead.

“It’s too large for you,” she says. And just in case I demand to buy it she adds, “and the colour doesn’t go with the skirt.”

I turn my attention to linen pants. They are very snug. But linen usually eases out, so I think they will do fine.

“Those pants won’t stretch,” she says. Just like my patience, I think, and I give up.

That evening, VJ and I meet for a drink and we compare notes on our shopping trips. Her day was spent going back to the abbatoir’s butcher to collect her two pigs, now neatly chopped into serving sizes.

She has spent all afternoon repackaging everything and filling the pre-orders she has. She is quite pleased because this time the butcher has given her the trotters, ears and cheeks – delicacies that may attract a premium. She declined the livers and brains, but thinks next time she will ask for the hearts as her spaniels might appreciate these.

My clothing issue is rather urban, by comparison. But it turns out that VJ has kept a couple of designer gowns from her slimmer days, which I can borrow. I am initially sceptical as VJ and I are – to put it generously – very different shapes. She is about six foot, buxom and slim hipped. I am short, not so buxom, and pear shaped.

I collect the dresses and am thrilled that they fit very well – although I can’t help thinking we would look a funny pair, were we to frock up in the same dresses which would fit our curves in quite different (albeit spectacular) places.