Look at the still hot weather imploding itself on Britain. Go on, look at it. Go outside and look it in the eye and tell it you’re not perturbed by a bit of sunshine, that your grandfather once bummed a hotter celestial body than Sol. I’ll wait for you to come back inside.
Tum ti tum. La di da.
Ah you’re back, I was just singing something awful by McCartney. What did the sun say? Told you to put what where? How terribly rude.
It warms. Blood is warm. Toes are warm. Underpants are warm. Root vegetables are warm even when they’re in the bloody fridge. It’s like the summer of 1976 all over again (legal requirement, remember) and we must all bath with a friend. Or was that to save energy?
If you can remember the seventies you weren’t there. But if you can convert this recent addiction to the wrong temperature gage back to proper Fahrenheit you’ll find seventies and even numbers in the eighties. Sex crime. Or was that to promote a movie?