heatwave

Holy crap, it's hot. Yes, yes, I know, I know, this is wussy English heat, and thus I am, well, a wuss, but I'm telling you, it doesn't take long to adapt to the generally mild English climate, and when you do, your notion of extreme changes entirely. 30 C is bloody damn hot, people, particularly in a nation where your basic climate control device is a window. Back in the fiery pit of summer hell known as the upper midwest, I would probably have considered this a nice day once, but nine years have passed, and I am more delicate now, and I want my weather in that blessed zone between 10 and 20 C, thank you ever so much.

As it happens, I've also adapted to the metric system, so it's not all pure wussery.

Fortunately, our house is pretty well designed to handle hot weather, so when the afternoon heat is at its absolute fiercest, I can retreat to my north-east-facing lair on the first floor, turn on the fan, and wait it out. Inevitably, Pix appears when I do this, and plops herself directly in front of the fan, blocking a fair amount of the breeze as she makes herself as comfortable as possible. Cats are charmingly self-centred like that. If they had opposable thumbs, they would always drink the last of the milk.

Let's see. Cats? Check. Knitting? Check. Neurosis? Oh, definitely check. The other day, I asked Phil if it ever seemed to him that I was a born spinster who'd somehow accidentally got married. He laughed a lot, and it was not laughter of the 'oh you silly girl, don't be ridiculous' variety, if you know what I mean. It was more the laugh of ironic appreciation. I mean, he's OK with it, and it's nice to know I'm not just imagining it, because it really does explain a lot.