Gawd it's hot. I'm sitting here with a hand-held fan, trying to waft myself to some semblance of coolness in between typing. It's not working, surprisingly.
I was given this particular fan by a lovely mate when we went to her wedding in Gibraltar a couple of years ago, and found it again recently. It's one of those pretty ones with pictures of flamenco dancers on it, and it smells nice when I waft it, possibly of exotic unguents and oils from the East.
Bloody useless for cooling me down though.
I need a punkah wallah. But not like the one in "It Ain't Half Hot Mum". Google it and be astounded, American readers! You'll be glad you did....British television at its zenith. Or do I mean nadir?
Or, and I much prefer this idea, a huge semi-naked muscly oiled bloke with an ostrich feather fan to stand behind me and waft*.
I went out earlier to run a few errands and just walking across town** made me sweat like a really unattractive sweaty thing.
One of my errands involved popping into the library to use their 10p-a-go photocopier. As the sweet lady librarian struggled with the catastrophic paper jam which my 10p single copy caused, I stood by, idly looking around the rest of the library.
And what luck! The Town Crier was there, running an afternoon workshop, one presumes called: "Town Crying: It's Not Just Bellowing."
A small group of people were sitting attentively around a table, on which a selection of be-furred tricorn hats and large brass bells were set out. As I watched, one of the elderly attendees tentatively jingled a Town Crying Bell, then looked tremendously pleased with herself.
My photocopy was eventually rescued from the bowels of the machine, and as I walked out of the library I heard the Town Crier telling the group "Yes, I have all my hats custom-made." Excellent.
*Mr WithaY has already said no. Bah.