H.O.T.
Monday, November 21st, 2005I’m trying desperately to think up inspiring words to use to describe to you how hot it is today.
Even my elbows are sweating. The backs of my knees are producing enough moisture to rival the average daily rainfall in Wales. I keep imagining how utterly wonderful it would be to discover a forgotten pocket of wintry air in the back of the stationery cupboard. I don’t know what made me think I might find it in the stationery cupboard, but I’ve stuck my head in there just in case the idea was a result of divine inspiration. It wasn’t.
All I can hear outside is the whirr and grind of cicadas in the bushes. Cicadas make the heat seem more intense. They sound like radio interference, when there’s nothing but sultry, oppressive silence for them to interfere with.
Solitude and peace remove any distractions from the heat, but the presence of people just makes it more stifling.
I’m finding it next to impossible to imagine what the weather’s like at home. I went to watch the rugby on Saturday, and the pictures from Twickenham seemed like they were from another planet. It was only 3pm, and the sky was already darkening. The naked trees and pebbledash semis looked chilled and subdued. The players all breathed wreaths of vapour at each other – presumably some kind of gamesmanship.
I simply can’t imagine ever feeling cold again. Worse, coolness threatens permanently to elude me.
I’m going to go home, open the fridge door and sit in front of it.
