Forget about industrial strength hairdryers, I need an industrial strength air conditioner and pronto.
Of course the air con works perfectly fine on the other side of the door where El Presidente reigns (yesterday I caught him practising his signature and it began and ended with an X), but only two bricks away where the rest of the world lives, I was sweating along with the primates.
My body wasn’t designed for summer.
And I’m not just talking about my chicken wings for arms or skin that burnt on reflections, but my mind tended to go into a freefall of lethargy, where even lifting a glass of water to my lips to replace the loss of fluid via my armpits was almost too much effort.
The computer complained more than usual, my stockings clung to the carpet, and if the change didn’t come through soon, I would have to endure the horror of all nine to five horrors and be stuck on a tram with a hundred other pits, all raised and surrounding me in stereo.
Dreaming of icebergs, ice creams and Spaceballs on ice,
Ms doing-the-rain-dance M.
