Right… so, it’s August, and that means summer holidays! Despite my misgivings that our British hols would be two weeks of drizzle and lots of cursing that we didn’t get on a plane to sunnier climes, we lucked out on the weather. So ten of our 14 days in Cornwall were stunningly sunny!

It was beautiful down there: dazzlingly blue and turquoise seas, big waves, long, sandy, deserted beaches. It really is a very special place.

Being brave or foolhardy, I’m not sure which, we booked in for a family surfing lesson. First of all, this involved wetsuits, for everyone. The four of us looked like – remember that kids’ film about the family of superheroes, The Incredibles? Yes that was us, except we were armed with a huge yellow surfboard or giant banana.

It turns out that surfing is quite scary (to begin with, especially if you’re convinced your 6 yr old is about to drown) not to mention exhausting. Muscles I’d never felt before were left aching, but we all worked very hard for our gorgeous surf instructor, yes him of the sea-bleached, tousled hair, a mahogany sea-tan, rippling surfer muscles… I’m sorry, I noticed, I’m only human.

When he referred to my not quite so rippling husband as ‘The Big Fella’ I had to giggle, but I wasn’t laughing quite so hard when he referred to me as: ‘Mum’ !!!! Oh. My. God. That is crossing a line. I’ve clearly got to the age where handsome young men start thinking of me as ‘Mum’. This is deeply, deeply tragic. And I have to say, I didn’t think I was wearing my wetsuit so badly. All that treadmill running had paid off slightly.

I didn’t manage to stand up on my board, but I did do a lot of body boarding which was brilliant. On the beach there were loads of properly old ladies (ie older than me) in suits with board, just grinning from ear to ear. Because it is brilliant fun. This is clearly the secret to a British seaside summer, you’ve got to get in and get wet. Never mind the weather!

Meanwhile, while I was eating pasties and ice cream on Sennen beach near Land’s End, my glamorous sister-in-law was on holiday in New York. Yes, she’s newly single, she’s still child-free, so she decided to book herself a glam singleton holiday to NYC.

Obviously, with the dollar on the skids, everything seemed incredibly good value and she had a very nice little shopping time to herself. Discount shoes, an adorable little Coach handbag and so on.

However, she did report back on a really quite terrifying trend. Every one in NYC carries a beautiful bag, OK, we expected that. In fact, we’d have been shocked if they didn’t, but, here is the but… despite the 35 degree heat, despite the bags and the manicured hands and the incredible designer clothes (smart, smart Prada skirts, nipped in blouses, groomed hair) guess what lots and lots of women were wearing on their feet? High Jimmys or Manolos, I hear you answer and I know, I’d have guessed the same. But no, apparently the coloured, patterned, mid-height Wellington seems to be the footwear of choice!!!! Bizarre!! Is it comfortable to walk about NY in mid-July in calf height wellies? Is it a status statement: I have a really big garden/ allotment/ home in the countryside. Well, whatever the reason… they’re definitely not wearing calf-length wellies for style.

I asked if she at least had a pic for me to post, but she said every time she saw one of these wellie-wearers walk past, she was so shocked, so stopped in her tracks by the sight that she never got it together to take a snap.

Being stared at in disapproval for your fashion faux pas reminds me of being in Paris, aged 19, inter-railing. I was probably wearing a t-shirt, grubby shorts and possibly even hiking boots. This chic Parisisan woman, walked towards me, in the typical Paris outfit of slick, skinny black, smooth hair, sunglasses, and just gave me this look. Her eyes travelled right up and down me and then her face registered this pinched look of horror – making me feel about two inches high.

The last time I was in the south of France, I thought the French women looked a bit frumpy to be honest. All that striped blue and white top business. I mean, it’s quite cute when you’re under ten as holiday wear, but come on!

Sun! We have sun! For the second day in a row, we have blue skies and a great big golden orb blasting us with heat.

Obviously I couldn’t post a word yesterday, the first officially decent day of the year, because I was doing what every self-respecting Scottish person does at the slightest hint of sunshine: staying outside all day in the skimpiest summer clothes to be found in the back of the wardrobe. Yes, that slightly mouldering pile of things unworn since last August.

Now everyone, apart from me because I am a ‘Mediterranean olive’ type, is already burnt. Can you blame them?? No sun for six, seven months, then a full on, factor 20 blitzer of a day without the slightest warning and no one was going to go off to the chemist’s for sunscreen because they might have missed it. That’s how the weather is here: it could all change in the blink of an eye.

Today, the second official day of sunshine, I have been out and about noticing the alarming variety of confused summer outfits there are out there because no one has been summer shopping and summer clothes are not worn out in a season up here, believe me.

So in just a short tour of the high street I’ve seen more long fishtail dresses (1980s? early 1990s?) than I’d care to mention. Especially bad in olive green. Then there was the girl in the matching printed blouse and printed shorts worn with dark wool tights and MBT trainers… and another in a bright lime green vest dress with baseball boots and the palest Scottish skin you can imagine.

Let’s not leave the men out of this: three quarter length black trousers, sandals, grey socks, white t-shirt, black jacket and monumental beer belly left one third exposed. Mmmmm… you’d think I was making it up, but sadly not.

Personally, I kept my jeans on. It may have been sunny but I wasn’t taking any chances. The weather can change in a blink of an eye.

The only person who looked really good in her new summer wear was my totally style-and-fashion-gifted daughter.

One look out of the window this morning and she went to her three school summer dresses (she bought them herself at last year’s school fete for 50p a pop). She held each one up in turn in front of herself, picked her favourite, then selected white socks with a blue and white check trim and a matching blue hair-clip.

I am constantly learning from her. She always chooses her clothes in a few co-ordinating colours: pink, purple, blue, some red, but nothing else. She is always prepared: buying dresses well ahead of summer and she always cares about the details: the matching socks and clips.

I think the style gene has skipped a generation and gone from my mother, straight to Claudie.

PS The summer holiday is booked…. Cornwall!!!!!!!! (You will have to read the last April post to know why that is tragic!!) No sooner had I booked it, than I was on another writer’s website reading how she’d spent four weeks in Cornwall where it drizzled every single day. AAAAArgh!