WE’RE having a heatwave … and I’m in Grimsby. Yep, the fab weather has coincided with a trip up north to the unglamorous motherland, meaning all the sunny evenings I could be spending sea swimming in Cornish coves, or gazing in wonderment at spectacular Atlantic sunsets, will instead be filled with views of oil refineries, or the prospect of paddling in the brown waters of the River Humber.

Daughter is equally frustrated with the vagaries of the weather. While I take my lead from the BBC weather app, she rises in the morning, looks out of the window at the cloud yet to burn off, and rages at the thought her evening beach swim will be less than perfect.

In vain do I tell her that sometimes, you just have to look out of the window and make a snap decision when you’re about to go out, rather than making the call at 7am ahead of a full day of school. (In fairness, the heatwave has given rise to swimming and gig rowing opportunities in the lovely waters of the Roseland).

There are two other beings who will be less than pleased with the current turn of events, and that’s our rabbit pair, who in my absence will likely be cooped up for a week of the most glorious skies imaginable.

I like to think I’m a good pet owner. Working from home, my “colleagues” are on the furry side, and I like to keep them happy with treats.

Technically, they are family pets, but I do feel the rabbits and cat are de facto mine. I’m the one who feeds the cat most mornings, and I’ve grown into my role as chief bunny carer, enjoying a snuggle as I put them out each day. I tell myself it’s because I’m the most skilled in this department – my Other Half would certainly have me believe this is so – but I suspect it’s because no one else can be bothered.

OH returned from a recent away-day in Devon and reported having met someone who sounded just like me: a WFH woman who had acquired rabbits for the kids, only to find she was a) doing most of the work, and b) having to abandon Zoom calls due to a runaway bunny having hopped post the home office window.

I talk to the rabbits, and most of all, I know what they like: sowthistle. A staple of the Cornish hedgerow, it’s a bit like a tall dandelion with rocket-type leaves and lusciously milky stems - like catnip to rabbits.

I spot it with laser-like focus; I know where all the best spots are in the neighbourhood, and will happily go the long-way round to collect a choice example.

Opposite Daughter’s school is a wonderful verge just full of the stuff; when I pick her up after a club, often with a schoolfriend in tow, the car reeks of the stuff, sending Daughter into hayfever-induced sneezing spasms exacerbated by her embarrassment.

Daughter despairs as we walk and talk, only for my mouth to form an appreciative “Ooh!” as I add a particularly fine specimen to my mental map. On Father’s Day, we went to Polly Joke to see the wildflowers sown by the National Trust. “MUM!!” exclaimed Daughter, imagining sowthistle as I pointed, in fact, at a six-spotted burnet moth.

I can regularly be seen carrying handfuls of the stuff, and have requested a bouquet for my coffin when the time comes. This is hopefully some way off, but given the speed with which cars zoom past the hedgerow opposite our cul-de-sac, where I can often be found foraging, I might meet my maker sooner than planned.

Once, on a walk near Holywell Bay, I discovered a monster specimen, and made OH stop the car as we drove past so I could grab it and shove it in the back – it took up a whole seat next to Daughter.

I have yet to be caught stealing from neighbours’ gardens - I practice stealth, like a cat burglar prowling in the night. I’ve yet to try out this manoeuvre on the gardens of strangers. I’m certain, though, that most would be more than happy, and agree with my defence that I’m doing them a favour.

Because not everyone likes weeds. Think of the debate around roundabouts - wild versus manicured – which is especially prevalent in Truro. Personally, I’m on the side of wild. Where would I get my bunnies’ fix if they were all sprayed and clipped within an inch of their lives?

In a couple of days, I will be making the long trip down the motorway back to beautiful, sunny Cornwall. If you read headlines of some idiot stopping on the hard shoulder to pick some particularly impressive flowers – well, it will probably be me.