There isn’t a beer cold enough to combat the heat waves that have plagued Hungary this year. Summers are normally quite hot and dry in this part of the world. Yet, this summer has felt hotter and drier than the previous nine I experienced since moving here.
Before anyone suspects me of forming a case supporting climate change emergency rubbish, let me just say that I see no trends in this current deluge of heat waves—merely a summer that has been a bit hotter and drier than the nine previous summers I lived through.
Hot, dry summers have never bothered me much. Still, my tolerance for energy-sapping heat diminishes as I grow older. If my current rate holds steady into the future, I predict I won’t want to go outside whenever the temperature soars above 30 degrees Celsius. Now? Well, I’ll be pouring concrete on Friday when the temps are forecast to reach as high as 37 degrees.
The dog in the dog days is not limited to the heat. This summer has just felt tougher than other summers. Too much to do. Too many people to deal with. Too few good nights for sleeping.
I haven’t been paying much attention to the news or the media, but I sense a kind of congealment settling upon the world—a sort of solidification and hardening; of things being set, so to speak. I don’t know what to make of that. All I know is that I must resist the congealment temptation and continue to flow.
I can hardly wait to return to work so I can finally relax. That’s the running joke I have been telling my wife for nearly a decade, but there’s some truth to it. Of course, I relax more at work because I don’t care much about it. Very little personal investment. Mostly just going through the motions.
Summer work is different. Far more personal; far more inspiring. Or at least it would be if it weren’t for the infernal heat.
Before anyone suspects me of forming a case supporting climate change emergency rubbish, let me just say that I see no trends in this current deluge of heat waves—merely a summer that has been a bit hotter and drier than the nine previous summers I lived through.
Hot, dry summers have never bothered me much. Still, my tolerance for energy-sapping heat diminishes as I grow older. If my current rate holds steady into the future, I predict I won’t want to go outside whenever the temperature soars above 30 degrees Celsius. Now? Well, I’ll be pouring concrete on Friday when the temps are forecast to reach as high as 37 degrees.
The dog in the dog days is not limited to the heat. This summer has just felt tougher than other summers. Too much to do. Too many people to deal with. Too few good nights for sleeping.
I haven’t been paying much attention to the news or the media, but I sense a kind of congealment settling upon the world—a sort of solidification and hardening; of things being set, so to speak. I don’t know what to make of that. All I know is that I must resist the congealment temptation and continue to flow.
I can hardly wait to return to work so I can finally relax. That’s the running joke I have been telling my wife for nearly a decade, but there’s some truth to it. Of course, I relax more at work because I don’t care much about it. Very little personal investment. Mostly just going through the motions.
Summer work is different. Far more personal; far more inspiring. Or at least it would be if it weren’t for the infernal heat.
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