Moving to Siberia
Ah, the agony of choice.
The temperature here is keeping pace with the rest of the week, during which, let us not forget, the UK’s highest ever temperature was recorded. (And, marvelously, the day the air conditioner in our office broke down, leading to indoor temperatures of 37 degrees C and to me breaking our game build by checking some code in whilst too warm to think.)
The difference today is that it rained for the first time in weeks. This didn’t make any appreciable difference to the temperature, but did make it incredibly humid. There are few sights in life less appealing than a fat, sweaty computer programmer, so I’ve taken the cave troll approach and am refusing to leave the house until the weather starts playing fair.
None of my options for tonight seem viable:
It’s too hot to go out, but to make the house a bearable temperature I have to have many, many fans running and all of the windows thrown wide open. If I do this, though, then I’m subjected to the jukebox of the pub across the road, which so far tonight has played through the entire soundtracks of Saturday Night Fever and Grease, as well as playing “Come On Eileen” at least 5 times. I’ve been blocking this out by clamping headphones on, but that can’t go on for much longer. My ears are ringing and my headphones’ earpads are so sweat-sodden that I can’t bear the thought of putting them back on.
The obvious solution involves the use of a hand grenade, but I don’t seem to have any lying around, which is clearly an oversight on my part. If only it was possible to select which brain cells alcohol killed. If I could target my sensory centres directly then I’d be glugging back the meths right now…