Why I mustn't complain about the heat!

It feels like my grandmother has taken control of Mallorca's thermostat. She's set it up to a cosy 37 degrees. The words are melting off the page. In fact they melt before they've even made it out of my brain. 

What was I writing again? Who am I?

I'm trying to muster the energy to complain when I see writer Josephine Corcoran's latest instagram post. 

Black ink scribbled across a cream page, it reads: 

Today I am coming to terms with the need to wear tights on 1st August.

What?!!! I think, as a mosquito spontaneously combusts in front of me. That bad??  

The thought of wearing tights on a normal day is an unpleasant one, but in this heat it's unbearable.

My memories of British summer come rushing back.

What summer? I used to wonder. It was always so desperately disappointing. But don't you remember that one summer when... people say. NO, I do not remember a British summer where it was consistently hot for a whole month. At best, I remember a sunny week in April back in 2014... possibly 2013.

The effect that post has on me is instantaneous. My desire to complain shrivels up along with all my plants. Of one things I'm sure, I'll take this heat over tights in August any day!