"Just look at that sky, not a single cloud in it"

London Pride, Piccadilly – and love is in the air. I can’t get away from all the affection.

I have submitted to several unsolicited embraces from Gay Pride marchers wearing sweat-drenched T-shirts emblazoned with the words “Free Hugs”, and it’s far too hot for hugging.

But it’s not just the huggers whose affection I can’t avoid, it’s my sister’s; right now, she is all affection, enjoying the freedom of our easy-going, undemanding intimacy to insult me in that relaxed way which comes from knowing someone’s shortcomings inside out, but without this knowledge dimming affection. It’s a magnificent thing, unconditional love, when you think about it, but there’s no getting away from it sometimes.

“That S&M lot,” I say, pointing at a group of men in rubber as they parade past, “I mean how can they possibly bear 30 degrees heat in top-to-toe black rubber? They’ve only got tiny slits for their eyes.”

“What is it with you and the f***ing weather?” my sister says, “I told you no weather-talk, under any circumstances, especially since you’re here for a week.”

“Look at that man in the black pig-mask” I say, “with the studs on – he must be boiling inside that outfit.” “Stop weather-talking,” she says, “you’re not in Ireland now.”

“I am merely making an observation about the wearing of rubber in relation to heat, which doesn’t count as weather-talk,” I say.

“Ok then,” she says, “let me make it clearer, no heat-talk either, now shut up, there’s a scary man with a rubber horse head and reins over there and I want to have a proper look.” She is unstinting in her affection, even on the Tube.

“When we get home,” my sister says, “you can sit on the balcony with your book. I want to clean the flat and don’t say ‘can I do anything?’ because I don’t want you to do anything. I want you to relax.”

“You just don’t want to let me have a go with your funny new mop-slippers,” I say.

“What rubbish,” she whispers, hissing “shhh,” but looks all guilty and found-out.

At home, I sit on the balcony. There is no way, I think, lowering my book onto the table, that any self-respecting person living in Ireland could sit here in this heatwave, like I am now, without saying, “just look at that sky, not a single cloud in it.”

If my sister Gessi from Sligo was here, I think, or anyone else who has experienced 20 Irish summers on the trot, we would enjoy some lovely weather-talk together.

“Just look at that sky,” I say, “not a single cloud in it.”

“I heard that,” my sister says, trying to wrestle a mop-slippered foot into the kitchen sink, “you just couldn’t keep it in, could you? Your weather-chat has become pathological, you need to do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like move away from Ireland,” she says, squirting liquid soap onto her mop-slipper, “you’re even worse than Gessi.”

“I can’t be,” I say, “it rains way more up in…” “Oh my god,” she says, removing her foot from the sink and wrestling into it the other. She sloshes it about in warm soapy bubbles.

“You’re doing it again,” she says, “weather, weather, weather, yak, yak, yak.”

“That sky is beautiful,” I say, “in Ireland, you get a sky like that for a day and it’s like someone’s suddenly put the entire nation on Prozac. In Ireland, not to appreciate a sky like this would be wrong and not to comment on it would be…” “...f***ing bliss,” she says.

“You’d be all sympathy if a Masai warrior wanted to talk about rain,” I say, “so you should extend the same courtesy to people in Ireland who want to talk about sun.”

“Weather, weather, weather, yak, yak, yak.” “Sun, to people living in Ireland is like rain to people living in the Great Rift Valley,” I conclude, feeling quite pleased with my point.

“Right,” she continues, looking like she means business and skating across the wooden floor towards me in her blue mop-slippers (she’s always fancied herself on ice), “no sky observations. And nothing thinly-disguised, like, ‘oh me oh my, look at that cloud formation.”’

“That skating looks like such fun,” I say, “give me a go.” “No,” she says, coming over all OCD and skating away fast, “you’ll make a mess.”

“You look like Torville,” I say, and am rewarded by her gratified smile. “Only neurotic,” I continue, “and more clod-hopping.” For it works both ways, this affection thing, and it’s about time I gave her some of mine.