Yesterday I filed copy while wearing a bikini. That sounds like a wonderful, glamorous thing to do, but I was wearing a bikini because it’s so hot that you can almost touch the air around you. Its so hot you could probably fry an egg on the poor little Mac, which wheezes and complains but plods loyally on.
I think I’ve slid into that classic English trap of thinking that the Mediterranean siesta is just an excuse for laziness and that if they had any gumption at all they’d just press on through like any Brit would. That was before The Days Of 39 Degrees.
I’m sending emails, semi delirious with heat, god alone knows what they say. All the sensible locals are hiding away at home or cooling themselves in air conditioned offices. I’m the only one in the café barring the waitress. She looks surprised when I order a two litre bottle of water, and even more surprised when I pour half of it over my feet to try and stay cool.
On the plus side I have fixed the air conditioning in my hire car. Apparently if you want it to work you have to actually turn it on. Go figure.
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