Clearly it’s hot, it’s hotter than Venus in London today and everyone is claiming it’s impossible to work, to get to work or to get home from work without suffering some kind of heat stroke. But let me tell you, in comparison to spending a day at home with the kids, going to work is a walk in an air conditioned park.
This weather has turned my kids into brain-damaged monkeys off their tits on crack, and thus, spending any time with them induces both hot and cold sweats. Even the dog who will usually follow them round in the hope of a scrap is hiding from them, somewhere in the house, currently reducing my most expensive boots into something that even the master cobbler at Grenson would no longer recognise.
So i cycled into work, and now, as the sweat now pours off all of my special crevices, and my little corner of the office is hotter than the devil’s hairy ass-crack, i am already planning how to get back to the house of pain and join Truffle, remorselessly chewing on shoe leather under the stairs and hoping no one ever finds me till October rolls round again.