Hotness is a puzzler. Not hotness in a sexual sense, that’s not puzzling at all – if someone registers as a hotty on your particular sexuality radar then phew, sizzle, lawks alordy. But hotness of the day, of the weathering, of the climactic conditions dontcha know.
It’s a puzzler because you spend ages fidgeting at night, uncomfortable and unable to drop off and feeling like total shitpoo yet when you do eventually drop off you wake only about three hours later with the returning sun and somehow feel all refreshed and like you’ve been injected with god.
There wasn’t time for head scratching this morning. Oh dear me no. My brain decided that oh fuck o’clock in the morning is the perfect time to fiddle about with the new song I’ve been working on this week. And my brain was right: the song is quite singy now and I approve of it.
Yesterday the hotness was oppressive and made me gurn at folk a lot, either because I was squinting in the sun or to convey that I thought they were fuckwits. Today is more cloudy but still sultry. Sultry is a hotness in the sexual sense word. I may fancy the weather.