30 degrees, Celsius. That’s 86°F in old money, and in case you’re wondering, the °F stands for °Fucking hot.
I ventured forth at lunchtime, thereby proving that it’s not only mad dogs and Englishmen who go out in the mid-day sun, and I have to tell you, it’s very hot indeed, as if you needed anyone telling you this. Unless, of course, you happen to be one of the many Inuit followers of BTR.
Jesus Christ, I’m coated in a permanent film of sweat, which many people would normally find revolting except that I’m not alone. In fact I’m like everyone else in the country, where we’re experiencing temperatures similar to Spain and parts of North Africa. Because I expect to be out in the open all day tomorrow, with no hope of shelter, I’m seriously thinking of buying a djellaba and a keffiyeh, or at least knocking something together out of old sheets and tea-towels.
What do you think? I don’t care how I look.
Failing that, I might go for the Fremen look. Very cool.
My tomato plants and sunflowers are begging for mercy. The dog is lying on his Satanic side looking up at me in dejection with his tongue hanging out on the floor. I’m exhausted, Master. Please bring me something slow-moving to kill.
The one major drawback of this weather is the number of people parading around half naked. Hairy chests, beer bellies, bad tattoos and wife-beater t-shirts, and that’s only the women. I don’t like it. There must surely be a city by-law. No Wal-Martism! Down with it, I tell you!
The other thing I don’t like is all this drinking in public, a thing I remarked on to my friends as we sat outside our favourite pub the other day, enjoying our ice-cool beers. Look at those scobes at the corner, I told them , with their cans of cider. Disgusting. Drinking in public. Pint?
I’ll have to get away soon. Maybe to the islands or maybe to the highlands. I’m not sure yet. Maybe I’ll head for someplace sunny. I haven’t been to our favourite little bolt-hole in Croatia for ages though I’ve been threatening for the last six months. But it would probably make sense to wait until the Irish heatwave has passed, wouldn’t it? After all, what kind of fool would you feel if you flew off in search of the sun this week?
The Hound of Satan isn’t enjoying this, which surprised me. I thought he’d be used to much higher temperatures, given his origins but he hasn’t even got the energy to eviscerate a postman. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should drag him down the road and kick him into the river. Yesterday, I threw him a piece of raw meat and he looked at it like I’d offered him a bowl of organic salad. One one level, this is not good, but on another, you know what I’m thinking, don’t you? Yeah. Fuck him.
I’m enjoying this roasting weather. Long may it last.