Yup, I appear to have it. I had quite a busy and tiring weekend (self-inflicted and not unusual)…so, imagine my joy when I went to bed last night yawning my head off and looking forward to getting some shut-eye….and then couldn’t. Despite ridding myself of almost all of my “Organic Thermal Protection” since February, I still do not appear to be able to handle the heat.
Some would therefore say that I should get out of the kitchen but, unfortunately, my company do not have offices in Siberia which would be my only realistic option at the moment.
33 degrees in Mid-September. This does not bode well for a decently cold Christmas and therefore my Christmas Market trips will be limited or non-existent. Glühwein and Feuerzangenbowle require, at the very minimum, minus temperatures. You need to feel the benefit of drinking a hot drink on a cold evening. Then you can convince yourself it is medicinal or healthy or something. Which you definitely cannot do when it is 14 degrees and pissing it down. Fuck you Christmas Market 2015 (and 2014 now I come to think of it), fuck you sideways…with something spikey.
Living in Germany means that we don’t generally do Air Conditioning…what we do have are fans that are happy to burn electricity whilst moving warm air around your room. These are generally about as effective as a chocolate fireguard.
I did briefly consider sleeping in a cold bath…but figured it would warm up at some point and I would end up awake again. Iced drinks only help for a little while and so I am left with that most British of options….Moaning.
We are damned good at it. As a nation we have managed to come full circle and perfected it to such a level that we can moan about moaning. We moan about other people moaning and we moan when situations cause us to moan.
Wow, that is an abundance of moanage in that last paragraph…I might have to complain. I am not 100% sure why we moan so much as a nation. It could be the weather, as people love to tell me. It could be the food (that other favourite). I don’t know.
All I can say with any certainty is that if moaning was an Olympic sport, the event would never actually start because the Brits would still be moaning about the rules, other competitors, referees, colour of the stadium, time of the event and anything else you can think of, until after the closing ceremony takes place. And then we would moan that we didn’t win.
I try not to. I really do, but sometimes it’s the only option.
My point is I like it warm, but I don’t like it this warm and my diet precludes Solero based up-shut-fuckery (that’s for you Peter Kay).