THERE is a giant bright globe in the sky.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen one I can’t remember what it is called. Oh yes, I remember, it’s the thing we used to call the Sun.

It has sent me scurrying in search of all things summery – the kitsch wicker picnic basket, the floppy hat and the billowing cotton blouses (that in the current gale force winds are threatening to make me take off).

Oh, and the sunglasses. My wonderful, prized, Cutler & Gross sunglasses.

They are gone. I’m gutted.

I bought them several years ago – delighted that I owned a pair of original ’50s sunglasses by these celebrated designers.

I kept them under lock and key in their spectacle case lined with red velvet. I almost gave them a little night-night kiss before tucking them away for the winter, little realising how long their hibernation period would be. How I wish now, that I had said goodbye properly.

I think I parted with £50 when I stumbled upon them in a thrift shop, and they now sell for about the £500 mark – you can see why I’m so distraught.

Last Saturday The Husband and I went out to lunch to rekindle something, I don’t know what. I currently have better plans for kindling and The Husband, but that’s a whole other column.

Anyway, he obviously noticed me squinting like a newborn piglet and asked why I hadn’t got my sunglasses.

“Can’t find them,” I moaned.

He looked me straight into my squinting, weeping eye and said: “Cutler and Gross glasses. Noted. Birthday.”

I wish he wouldn’t say things like this.

Firstly, it gets my hopes up – I would love nothing more than a new pair of shades for my birthday, but the price tag they now carry is about £500 more than we’ve got. If you count the overdraft it’s several thousand more than we’ve got.

Imagine how disappointed I would be if they don’t appear? No birthday present would compare with a gleaming pair of Cutler and Gross sunglasses now they are firmly fixed in my materialistic mind.

I will have one last search for my glasses this weekend – even if I have to rip out my entire kitchen.

At least that’ll provide me with plenty of kindling . . .