I got in half an hour ago.
Almost didn’t need the key, wasn’t far off having to pour myself in through the letter box. Or trickled in through the gap beneath the door.
The tube from Victoria was packed, the temperature inside our speeding sardine tin was well in to the mid-30s.
The air outside, in Brixton, was not that much cooler; the total absence of wind movement emphasised how warm it was.
As soon as I was inside the front door I began peeling off my sodden shirt, trousers, socks, underwear; straight in to the shower.
A cold shower.
When I emerged I noticed that, unusually, I didn’t have the house to myself; picked up my discarded clothing and beat a hasty retreat to my room where I almost but not quite dried myself – preferring to let the residual moisture cool on my skin – sipped 7-Up and finished the crispy dregs of a tube of Pringles.
I should go downstairs, prepare, cook and eat but I think my motivation is still in the shower. Or perhaps that’s Teresa.
I’ve opened every window on the upper levels and the double doors in to the garden, but there’s still no breeze at all; sleep, this evening, might be uncomfortable – when it comes.
Even the aggressive beggars who usually congregate by The Roxy cinema couldn’t be arsed to bother me this evening.
When I’ve eaten it’ll be straight to bed with a good book – or failing that ‘Yes Man’ by Danny Wallace. And The Lovely Soph will take that as a slight because she enjoyed it but that’s what makes us individuals – I’m not. She did. But I shall finish it. In this world or the next. 🙂
I’d do a proper review of Mr Wallace’s oevre but I’m months behind in my ‘proper’ reviewing and if I don’t do Sam Manicom’s pretty bloody quickly he’s going to devise some fiendishly cunning punishment.
The funniest person I know – Daughter – says it’s even hotter where she lives; got up to 41 degrees today, apparently. But they don’t notice the heat as much because at that altitude they have a constant breeze (even if it is blowing in from The Sahara Desert).
The village is well in to its New Year celebrations; she was interviewed by TVE this morning. I hope they use the clip – the newsworthiness of an English girl who looks totally Spanish and speaks better (and faster!) Castillano than anyone else of her age in the village is undeniable – but if they don’t she’ll be devastated.
She hates me; told me so this evening. Said that every time we speak on the phone she laughs so much she gets the hiccups.
So that’s my fault? That she gets hiccups? Huh! 🙂
But she does laugh a lot and for that I’m grateful because it means she’s not turning in to a miserable hag
like her mother.
Three and a half months is, it seems to me, a little excessive for a school holiday. No?
I’d rabbit on a bit more but the pangs of hunger have their teeth in to me (oh, what a punner!) and I can’t put off a visit to the kitchen any longer.