IF you are reading this, you survived the heatwave; all three days of it in Bolton. It lasted longer in other parts of the UK, further south for example. Much further south that is, not Moses Gate.

I defied the dire warnings from concerned medical authorities, shed most of my garments, and lay prostrate in the back garden, soaking up the sun. I burned, of course, but eventually the angry red became Bovril brown and I had proved a point; the older you get, the dafter you become. But I didn’t finish up at A & E, or in Intensive Care, eventualities which the NHS, and my wife, assured me were certain to happen.

We are now very much a nanny state. Why would we need to be told that temperatures in excess of 30 degrees Celsius can damage your health? Yes, I concede that the very young, very old, and people with fair skin could be in danger, but surely there are enough relatives, friends, neighbours, carers, around to ensure they are kept out of harms way.

Nutters who choose to lie in it, seeking a Mediterranean tan, have only themselves to blame if they burn, and suffer for their vanity, madness, or both. Forgive me for pointing this out, but don’t legions of our fellow “Brits” chase the sun on their annual holidays, lying on foreign beaches, baking like oven bottoms? And I can’t remember any travel company, or resort, warning tourists to safeguard their health. Only in Britain...

Like all dogs, Boris, my miniature schnauzer, isn’t a hot weather fan. He prefers the shade but that doesn’t stop him wanting to go for his usual constitutional the same times every day, irrespective of the conditions. He stares in disbelief at other breeds who can’t wait to jump into Doffcocker Lodge to cool off. For some reason, Boris has never forgotten the day when, as a pup, he chased a duck and toboganned into the water. He swallowed half the lodge before making it back to shore. He has since never gone anywhere near the ducks, or the water.

During the hot spell I witnessed something which endorsed my belief that any species will fight to survive, no matter what the circumstances, or odds.

Lucas, my youngest grandson, who is two and a half, told me that there was “a fly” in his paddling pool. I went to investigate. It was a bee, too small to be a worker, so probably a queen, but whatever it was, it was drowning, I fished it out and placed it on top of a fence, in direct sunlight, hoping it would dry out. For more than an hour that bee clung to life, its spindly legs jerking and wings gradually flickering as they dried. Eventually it flew off, to a round of applause from Lucas and me.

I will relate that story when I stand before the Big Fisherman, in the hope that it will put a tick on the plus side of my CV. There won’t be many, but hopefully it will cancel my shameful disregard of Government Health Warnings.