Well it’s 29 degrees in the UK today, and that means every person you see is legally obligated to comment about it.
“Morning. How are you?”
“Hot.”
To compensate, we’ve taped brown paper to the windows and the desk fan is whirring away like it’s about to taxi to the runway. For some reason (I’ll let you speculate) we don’t have curtains or blinds - hence the parcel paper. And hence the reason it feels like I’m working inside a sepia photograph. If it weren’t so hot, I could have donned a stovepipe hat and twiddled a pipe.
No pipe twiddling though. Just coping with the heat. By the way, I do know that 29 (84) is probably not that big a deal around the world. It’s average for LA, and in the peak of summer in Dubai for example, this is night time. But here, in Blighty it’s worthy of sweaty comment, especially as none of us ever seem quite prepared for it.
Also, this is a beautiful country of rolling green with verdant trees that sing beneath changeable skies. We have sea on every side, rolling and crashing onto glistening rocks, and breezes that blow the heather on craggy cliffs. We’re a land of fields and hedges and farms and villages, where cricket is played to polite applause, and swallows dart in and out of quiet church spires. We sip tea in the shade, we eat boiled eggs and cold ham, and we ruffle newspapers and talk about the weather. So there, California. Pah to you, dusty old Dubai!
If you need me, I’ll be googling stovepipe hats and tapping away in my cool-sepia wonderland.
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