The scorching heat is burning a hole in the centre of London. All the trendy shorts and white t-shirts, flowery dresses and semi-tanned feet are out, walking the streets, searching for respite in the few and far between shadows of the city. It is 33 degrees, and sometimes I do truly wonder if we are nothing but part of a turtle’s dream in outer space*. It’s all so very surreal. and maybe it makes sense to someone, who knows. Objectivity vs subjectivity is an interesting discussion but not one for tonight.
I’m so hot. And I’ve made a list of things I have to do. Want to do. Need to do, for me. One thing at the time, no stress, no promises. It’s strawberry season. I want to stick my head in the fridge. Better than the oven, right? I can feel the little drops of sweat running down the back of my legs; they tickle my ankles before the fall onto the carpet.
It was fine. It was as expected and feared – familiar. Like falling into a beanbag. A turtle on its back in a beanbag. Mission fucking impossible. I won’t let it become that. I am Tom Cruise. I’m doing the maths now, seriously, I can move a few roads away and half my rent if I’m willing to share a bathroom with some other sad fucks. I love my flat but it can’t hold me back financially if, when, I change jobs and take the big plunge.
It’s actually too hot to write. Imagine that.
*from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia – “Charlie Rules the World” episode