The cicadas are abuzz, the sweat drips and I write poetry in my bunker. I heard Michael Palin say he writes in his diary every day. I aspire to write in my diary every day, I aspire to meditate every day. Best laid plans. . .
Once more I wonder how anyone survived this heat before the wonders of air con. I braved a few hours outside at the Christmas craft markets today, and without the relief provided by a quick dash to the nearby and fully air-conditioned museum, or the splendidly powerful fans of the outdoor cafe, Cornucopia, I’d be a slithery mass of sweat, collapsed on the lawn in the shade like a slug.
The clouds are descending, dark and dirty, the swimming pool calls, cool and captivating (even at 30.9 C!), the weekend has waltzed by, and I’m walking backwards for Christmas (thanks Spike).
zzzzzzzzzzzzz
