Jesus Hobbiting Christ it’s been hot.
I’m not sure of the exact temperatures, but i’m pretty sure they’re approaching hard boiled. I know, I know, complaining about the heat is like complaining about the length of your shins, but in these kind of temperatures, I tend to have very little energy left and the reserves I am left with I like to whole heartedly commit to having a whinge about the heat. Everyone needs a hobby. It seems that the only resolve left to us on days like this, where vinyl melts directly onto the turntable and the only way to eat ice cream is through a straw is to submit, acknowledge that very little is going to get done and lie at the bottom of the nearest body of water. I have looked long and hard for a ten foot snorkel which might enable me to remain submerged from sun up to sun down but am yet to succeed.
In the meantime I lament the lack of car I currently labour under and the fact that every pool in the area is not situated within my back yard. A distance is multiplied by eternity when there is a great deal of heat placed upon it. That’s science fact, that is. Probably. Usually, my nearest pool is about one kilometre away from my house. When hot, this becomes fifty thousand, kajillion miles. True story. Once it became so hot here that every single desirable destination I wished to travel to simultaneously moved to Narnia. Even the toilet. Speaking of the toilet, my glamorous girlfriend, El Cohen stated that it was too hot today to even have a shit.
Hey, I never said this was going to be pretty.
I read once that man could survive temperatures as high as 60 degrees with ease, though I’m sure this must involve comfortable trousers of some kind. For me, my comfort level sits somewhere around 21 degrees with a nice southerly breeze. I can function there. In these current hell-fire conditions I find my thoughts reduced to flatulent breezes which flit here and there and commit to nothing. On a cold day you wake fully alive, girded by the gods with a slap to the face. On a hot day your eyes open into lethargy, as if waking inside a giant hot dog. It is akin to having your buttocks massaged by Satan.
I like the cold. I like scarves and hats and gloves and being able to see your breath. I’ve never been one for shorts and the ones I am forced to wear during the hotter months tend to resemble flood pants, which makes their purpose somewhat redundant. Summer kills style. There is no discernible way to wear sunburn well. Whatever your personal opinion on thongs are, to me they are simply proof that we exist in a godless universe.
I wore a pair once. I wanted to shoot myself by the time I reached the bottom of the garden.
Autumn. Winter. Spring. These are symphonies. Summer is a drone; one note of bright, blinding heat which seems to go on forever. The beaches are full, the outfits are gaudy and the chaffing is ubiquitous.
I pray for rain and temperatures so cold they hurt your face. I yearn to waddle down the street with so many layers on I could take a twelve gauge shell and not even notice. I long to sleep pinned beneath a lasagne of doonas and to perch before the divinity of a roaring fire.
In the meantime, I shall be here… sweating.
It is not a fate worse than death.
It is a fate worse than being comfortable.