This heat’s killing me. I’m just not designed for it. I’m permanently floored, like a hangover with neither beginning nor end. Each day, I exceed my brain’s maximum operating temperature and each night, I’m wiped out. I have no energy, all I want to do is blob out.
If I wasn’t working just now, I wouldn’t even open my curtains. And I certainly wouldn’t be going over the door before the sun dropped.
A year ago, I was working full-time AND writing a novel. Now, it’s all I can do to work and sleep. Where the fuck has all my energy gone?
Last weekend, I visited a couple of friends who live a few miles away. First time I’ve seen them this year (they hadn’t even seen my hearing aids).
Like scottish people the world over, we discussed the weather in its entirety. (A) There’s too much of it, (B) it shouldn’t be this hot this time of year and (C) it wasn’t like this last year/when I was a kid.
By the next morning, we were in full agreement. This fucking weather’s all wrong and should be somewhere else and what’s bloody nigel fromage going to do about it, eh?

Why not read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

A love story – on home-made acid – narrated by someone first used romatically, then set on fire, by the blue peter team, capering around the pyre like wrinkled vikings.