August is almost upon me again. A tedious time of year to be in Paris, unless you happen to be a tourist and you can get away with wearing shorts and flip flops. My neighbourhood has effectively closed down for the next month: favourite clothes are trapped at the dry cleaners until September, there are no decent bread/croissants on sale within a 500m radius, and the tobacconist has now buggered off too. No more cigs for the Frog (he might actually have to stop smoking instead of just pretending now).
Temperatures are soaring, and I think it’s time to call on Holmes, my trusty
butler fan, so that he can stir the stale, polluted air round and round the flat. Follow my advice: never rent a flat with only south facing windows. I managed to fry an egg on my balcony last year. Top temperature measured in my bedroom at midnight: 40°C (using the thermometer which my exercise bike kindly defaults to when in ‘idle’ mode, its preferred state).
During the 2003 killer heat wave that significantly reduced the pensions shortfall in France and kept undertakers in business, I was on maternity leave and trapped at home with shutters firmly closed. I’m almost thankful to be at work this time round, even if the transition from 16°C in the air conditioned office to 30+°C outside can be a little brutal.
I’m the one you saw on the metro this morning with a cardigan on, blowing my nose.