It is too hot for me to be writing this. It is too hot to be doing anything other than sitting under a garden sprinkler eating an iceblock.
This is not a problem you often have in Christchurch where many a BBQ or picnic has been rendered chilly by an easterly wind.
The Christchurch easterly is sort of like the annoying, socially tone deaf neighbour that always turns up uninvited and makes everyone feel really uncomfortable by invading people’s personal space meaning that the party moves elsewhere or ends prematurely.
Yeah, that guy has apparently died. And now we’ve got no one to blame for not having a good time except ourselves.
For the last few days it’s felt like I’m permanently in a hot yoga class. Hot yoga is a thing that I go out of my way to avoid, combining, as it does, my two least favourite things – namely my own profuse sweating and even worse, the possibility of coming into contact with someone else’s sweat.
I want to set up the sproglet’s paddling pool in the living room so that I can keep cool my hot little trotters while watching telly.
Oh, I just realised I know a couple of people who are pregnant right now so I guess I’ll just shut up because those ladies must feel like they’re doing hot yoga next to an active volcano.