Writing in a heatwave.
Okay, so we’ve established it’s hot. Here, in the South East, the temperature has regularly hovered around 30 degrees for what seems like forever. Now I’m normally reptilian when it comes to the sun; I like to bask, like a lizard, letting those warm rays seep through my skin. On a normal sunny summer day I enjoy eating my lunch in the sun, relaxing for a blissful half hour (maybe longer, but keep that to yourselves. I don’t want everyone thinking I’m a shirker).
But 30 degrees? Forget it. One minute out there and I’m a sweaty mess. I’m done. So since May I’ve taken to hiding away inside, where it’s still too hot, but at least I’m not melting.
I am, however, trying to write, up in my study, in the loft conversion. And I can confirm that hot air definitely rises.
My coping mechanisms?
First, the essential glass of water replaces the usual mug of hot tea. It’s not as comforting, not as inspiring, but even just looking at the ice helps take my mind off how flipping hot I’m feeling.
Of course I have the blind partly down and the window open, though on some days it feels like all that’s doing is letting more hot air in. It also invites the insects in, including a bumble bee who seemed to have taking a liking to me. He’d fly in, I’d gently coax him out (using my Romance Matters magazine). A minute later, he’d be back again. I think he saw all his friends on the window sill….or maybe like me, he loves Jenson
Finally, as a last resort, I stick my feet in a bowl of cold water.
Oh yes, dear friends, writing is a glamorous life …