No, it isn't lovely that it's all hot and sunny. It really, really fucking isn't. One tries not to poop the party about this but temperatures around 30 centigrade make me ill. This afternoon I popped C in the paddling pool with a small parasol over us both creating the only forgiveness in a garden full of bastardy. Then wrapped a wet pashmina round my arms. And still I started to feel drugged, headached and sick.
Pushing the two girls through Schuman this afternoon was as close to purgatory as one might come this side of death. You think I exaggerate; I do not. All that concrete and glass is highly reflective. People smiling and being brown in high heels, happy that summer has come, makes it worse because nobody likes being a freak.
If one did not know that August was on its way, there are plenty of helpful hints. For example, the trams are now on a school holiday timetable, which means they turn up when they like. And all the shops in Montgomery station are shut for annual jollies. All. So I got an overpriced bag of crisps and a warm orange juice (overpriced) from the machine. Even Gourmet Foods, my last chance before Ambiorix, is shut. And it was too late for Carrefour because of the tram turning up when it liked.
Sitting partially naked with all (both) the windows open, I feel slightly more human now. However, full human-ness will not return, and bring with it my usual chortling good humour, until we are back to that lovely grey, cool, wetness which most people truly recognise as Bruxellien.