It’s hot. It’s so damned hot. It feels like it’s been hot forever. Next week when it’s freezing I know I’ll conveniently forget how hot and hellish it is right now, so for the benefit of Future Me: it is so hot that I can’t be a hundred percent sure the sun is not hurtling towards me as I write this, thus negating the possibility of the existence of any kind of Future Me.
It’s so hot nothing I write makes sense any more. They’re just scrawls. They don’t mean anything. They can’t express this heat. There are no words. The streets of Central London have become an airless ungodly frying pan of reflected heat and utter, utter misery.
It is so hot that I have cried at least 3 times this week, for reasons directly related to the heat. It is so hot that, for the first time in my experience, the Piccadilly Line is cooler than street level. Positively refreshing. I’m not shitting you.
It’s too hot to eat. I have no clothes that cater for this weather, but that’s okay because this weather is only really doable if you wear little or no clothing. It is not the weather of smart casual. It is not the weather for anything but sweaty flushed indecency. And NOT IN A GOOD WAY.
That distant roar you can hear right now is all the people who live in hot countries laughing themselves stupid. It’s the Aussies, guffawing at the stupid sunburnt Poms, it’s all the people in former British Empire colonies, wetting themselves as we wilt and droop and drop like flies. We are mad dogs and we are Englishmen but please don’t go out in the midday sun because you will surely be obliterated, like little bugs under the magnifying glass of a vengeful God.
If you’re lucky enough to be a teacher or a school-kid on summer break, if you’re on holiday or you’re unemployed (you lucky bastards) you won’t know what I’m talking about. You’ll be lounging around semi-naked drinking cool cocktails and looking all sun-drenched and lazy and sexy. But know this: I hate you so much right now.
I am in an office with no air conditioning. I tried to buy a fan earlier in the week, but the only ones left for sale in central London were £400+ Dyson Airblades, or small desk ones. I bought the small desk one. The box -a good 12 or 15 inches across – looked promising, but alas, the thing itself was a tiny usb plug-in desk fan. I am alone in the studio, so in theory there’s nothing stopping me from stripping naked and trying to get into our needlessly large studio fridge, but I feel a modicum of decorum must be maintained, not to mention professionalism. Still, it’s always an option.
Meanwhile, I pray for rain, the sweet relief of a two degree temperature drop, or the cool embrace of unconsciousness.