Like the sun that glowered down like a pissed-off solar bad guy, its rage focused squarely on the pale, sweaty faces of England’s unprepared folk.
Air conditioning? What’s that? Some fancy American joke?
I sat at my desk, keyboard sticky with the residue of melted semi soaked face towels and desperation. The fan wheezed pathetically, stirring the air like a geriatric butterfly with arthritis.
But there, on my screen, were the messages. The comments. The reviews.
You, the beautiful, glorious readers…
While the world outside turned into Satan’s sauna, you were still here.
Still reading my fever-dream ramblings, my tales of weirdness and woe.
I wanted to hug you all, but that would involve moving, and moving meant more sweat, and more sweat meant… well, let’s not go there.
So instead, I typed. Because if you could brave this solar apocalypse to read my words, I could damn well write them.
Even if my face melted off in the process.
Thank you, you mad, wonderful creatures for keeping up with my word shenanigans.
Now excuse me while I go stick my head in the freezer and I’ll hopefully be back with my regularly schedules programming tomorrow.
Stephen Walker