Bear with me, I'm going into full-on Liz Jones fucking moans territory. I haven't suddenly acquired a menagerie of sickly ponies, or a puppyish ageing fictional rockstar boyfriend, but nevertheless.
The last couple of days have been mainly spent in my pants, venturing into a t shirt and trousers for a broiling unpleasant walk to Carrefour. And everyone else is loving it. Summer has finally come, hoorah, get out and enjoy it, isn't it lovely. It makes people happy and that's something incomprehensible. I sit feeling vaguely unwell indoors (better than being extremely unwell outdoors), picking at some apple compote. The only activity that is feasible is cleaning the bathroom, mainly because it involves getting wet and cool.
I'm a freak, this much is clear. Most of the time it can be hidden under a carefully constructed shell of normal. But when temperatures are in the upper thirties and most people are joyously lying down somewhere roasting, or are dancing, cycling, roller-skating, or doing other summer things, I'm paralysed, miserable, sick. A date that was planned for this weekend has been cancelled, because I would be utterly rubbish company and then there are the crusted mosquito bites. Not one part of this apartment is cool. I may have to clean the bathroom repeatedly.
Hopefully it is nearly autumn.