Standing in the European Parliament today, posting things into the poorly arranged pigeon holes of MEPs, sweat ran down my back like an insect invading my pants. And this was in the spacious and conditioned atmosphere of the EP. You will be pleased to hear that I resisted gobbing into the pigeon holes of Jean-Marie and Marine le Pen, even though they were at the perfect height to do so.
It always amazes me that people can manage to look cool and elegant during hot weather. The ladies of the EP are on the whole very well dressed and propped up on perilous shoes. (Brussels is both very cobbled and very potholed.) And they have that effortless matt tan as if they have been spray-painted which, on reflection, is likely.
I am cultivating the usual pale and surly look, as far as the sun will allow, although walking from the station has been left one a bit pink. The sunshine has also doubled the number of circus performers which leads me to believe they multiply in hot weather like bacteria. Yesterday morning there was a face-off. Three indian-club jugglers stood idly on the pavement, idly juggling indian clubs. I was damned if I was going to walk into the road so aimed at them and refused to break my step, although this did carry with it the risk of being clubbed. At the last minute they stopped and parted. Small victories.
The worst thing about summer, apart from trying to avoid it like a fat and stroppy vampire, is how other it makes one feel. I know there are other people who get really unwell in the sun, but we are few. And to be honest it's easier to go along with the "isn't it lovely" recitation that you hear from normal folk because everyone loves summer don't they? So this is for D and for T, who I know are enervated miserable bloody sun-dodgers too.
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