On Tuesday morning my Tube line was down. This is a pain any day of the week but when it’s 36 degrees outside and you haven’t slept in several sweltering nights, being forced onto a packed bus with 85 other people who are also sweating through their button-downs, late for work, and screaming down their phones to alert their colleagues about it, I did start to wonder what god I had offended and which limb I could sacrifice to make it all go away.
I could feel my skin burning through the glass windows, was pouring the contents of my water bottle down my neckline and was bent double to avoid my sodden back making any kind of contact with the seat. I think I might have started crying at one stage, but there was so much moisture everywhere it’s impossible to say.
By the time I got to the office, after 40 minutes of this torture, I was a lost cause. The air conditioning was not enough to re-regulate my temperature or my mood. I felt completely feral. I couldn’t focus on anything. I went home early to avoid rush hour, where I turned on my £20 Amazon fan, took off all my clothes, and ate half a rotisserie chicken with my bare hands.
I’m not built for this. My blood is cold and Celtic. I haven’t been able to walk 100 yards down the road without stopping for a break in a Sainsbury’s Local to cool down in the Meat, Fish and Poultry aisle. Most of my plans this week have been cancelled because nobody I know can face it. Leaving the house means weighing up whether the air con at the destination is worth the risk of expiration on the journey.
