Chronic Chronicles (2)

The heat paradox

photo of author, taken by and property of the author, Sadie Seroxcat

It’s hot.

Stuffy, breath-stealing, clammy heat.
Going to rain and probably thunder heat.

Not that the rain is any novelty; I’ve said before — it’s always raining here in Cumbria. But the heat. Right now, it feels more like a rainforest than rural British Lakeland—full and heavy, sticky, pregnant with the moisture of an oncoming downpour.

Now, just to be clear, I like summer; I love warmth.
I’m a Leo. A July baby. Summer has always been my time of year. Off come the layers; on go the thin, strappy summer dresses — and I bloom. I come into my own. I hate being cold, the piles of woolly pullies, fingerless gloves in the house, shivery tension, and increased aching in bones and joints. But these days, the heat of summer, especially this oppressive wet heat, also has its challenges.

I do realise that the above sounds like typical English complaining about the weather, but that’s not where I’m going — and it’s obvious that my issues with the temperature are nowhere on the scale of ‘terrible things happening in the world’, compared to children dying and being maimed daily because of political posturing and genocidal violence over land and religion.