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Confessions of a Hot, Angry Woman

August 7, 2018

 

Two weeks ago I read a tweet on Twitter:

 

‘This heatwave is the longest Tennessee Williams play I’ve sat through’ - Lettie Graham

 

    She’s right. I don’t know where the plot is going but I’m pretty sure something terrible is going to happen and I will end up in a red polyester dress without a bra, stroking a cat on a hot tin roof.   Everything seems to be regressing.  Even Hampstead Ladies Pond,  my oasis for previous heatwaves (the ones that last a week) now feels like jumping into a tepid bath full of pond weed. The grass looks like straw, the air smells like a toilet, there is literal steam rising from the rails on the Central Line and yesterday, somebody had the audacity to eat a hot chicken meal on a crowded Jubilee tube. Costa sells cold brew and iced flat whites. Honestly, I am livid.  Anti social behaviour seems to have reached an all time high.  Anytime someone even brushes against my arm I want to point at them and scream ‘NO’. I’m thinking of carrying Febreeze with me everywhere I go. Forget, ‘please carry a water bottle’ we need to add ‘please wear deodorant and keep reapplying’ ‘we recommend breathable fabrics’ and ‘when was the last time you had a shower?’ Children keep roaming over my seat shrieking and throwing their sweets onto the floor whilst their parents look on sheepishly and tourists seem to have lost the ability to walk in a continuous stretch from entrance to exit. No one is kissing. It’s too hot. People are breaking up; no one wants to sleep in a bed with another person right now. I can't ride my bike because it's like dipping my head in petrol and I feel sorry for every single pregnant woman who has to travel underground; I want to buy them all that posh Evian face spray but it's actually a major rip off cos IT’S JUST WATER IN A CAN. 

 

    Every time I sit down on ANYTHING I feel like Princess Leia shackled to Jabba the Hut in Return of the Jedi. I think I lose 50% of the skin cells on the back of my thighs whenever I stand up. In fact, my entire bedroom feels like Tatooine and I think I’ve unintentionally entered into a co-dependent relationship with my fan.  I no longer have any desire to lounge about in a park, melting into soup with my friends when I could sit at home in my underwear speaking softly into its centre so I sound like ET. The only downside is that I have to listen to the young girls in the garden opposite shrieking from noon till 8pm as they, understandably,  squirt water guns onto their headscarves. The foxes in Willesden Green seem to have had a few wild nights out in the neighbourhood’s bins as every morning the streets smell like gone off shrimp and that portion of stir-fry you left in your rucksack overnight. On a slightly more sinister note, I seem to be cat-called incessantly on my way to and from work. Basically everyone needs to take a cold shower. 

 

    Also, I literally ran out of clothes. Like, I did not possess the correct accoutrements for a heatwave. My summer wardrobe consisted of two dresses, dungarees and a joke pair of shorts I bought from a Berlin flea-market embroidered with the logo of a sea resort in the Bahamas. Not enough, not appropriate. My skin is perpetually a bit red, not from sunburn but simply because I’m expanding. Last Friday I worked from home and had to take two showers from simply sitting at my desk and translating. I AM NOT COPING. I sweat off all my make up before I get into any audition room and I have lost my ability to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes.  Two of my favourite TV shows started their fourth seasons and I can longer stand any of the protagonists, in fact I'm starting to wonder why I thought they were good in the first place. I’m losing my sense of humour. Crouching beneath my skin is the rage of a woman who hasn’t been able to read the news for the past six months and is now overheating. I want to lock the entire British parliament into a rush hour Piccadilly Line carriage that’s just about to stop at Covent Garden. I’m pretty sure differences would be reconciled fairly quickly. The only up side to the whole news debacle was watching the Trump blimp fly over Westminister. 

 

    Today in Time Out Magazine they talked about a van that will deliver Aperol Spritz to your door for free in honour of international Prossecco day and I wasn’t even excited. I don’t know who I am anymore.  I am just not built for this kind of temperature, the British are a mild, flakey, fair weather folk who like a comfortable 25 degrees centigrade and a sea breeze. Better yet give me some rain. I miss wearing my waterproofs. 

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