It’s 8.15 am and the temperature in my office is already 32 degrees C.
I don’t know what that would be in Farenheits, but let’s say it could be classed as reasonably pleasant if you were to sit on a beach, with light wind and ice-cream coktails as company, yet reasonably unpleasant first thing in the morning in your airless office.
I am childless, and most of my friends have wisely deserted the heat-struck city.
So I spend my days stewing in the office for ridiculously long hours, and my evenings watering my dessicated garden, picking raspberries and blackberries, which I then turn into jam – wearing nothing but my underwear – because it’s just soooo hot. Not me, the temperature.
I have become a woman of simple needs: A meeting in an air-conditioned room is a treat practically on a par with eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Diving into the local outdoor pool at lunchtime is the highlight of my day.
Meanwhile, it has been a year since things brutally went haywire with Mr Nice, who has turned into such a world-class jerk since, that I remain incredulous about spending 2.5 years of my life with such a moron.
It has also been a month since Mr Xmas dropped me like a hot potato, and he recently seems to have dropped off the face of the Earth himself.
And you know what? I cannot be bothered to truly give a hoot about it.
I do really hope he keeps his promise to water my garden next week. Other than that, whatever.
Maître Gims – Est-ce que tu m’aimes ?
Another Summer chart-topper in France. Get your sparkly hot pants out!