I am a born winter baby.
I grew up in a city where people ski down the High Street in winter, where -12 degrees is a reality and not something the eskimos would be hard pushed to deal with. Icicles form over night, wellies do nothing to stop wet feet and wet floor signs become redundant – EVERYWHERE is wet.
Suffice to say, I do not do well in heat. Not when I haven’t been given prior warning. On holiday, it’s different. Hotels have air conditioning, and there is usually a swimming pool or an ocean to cool down in on demand.
In London, there is no such relief. A fan that barely works and a non existent breeze is not enough. Suffice to say, if I move to Australia, it will be near a beach. If I move to New York, it will be for one winter only. And…well, I won’t be moving to the Sahara. Let’s leave it at that.
I haven’t been anywhere that warrants writing about. Tomorrow I will be working at Kenwood House in North London. Let us hope for some cloud cover, ladies and gents.
See you all tomorrow. I promise I’ll stop moaning then.