Yesterday, the temperature hit 41 degrees Celsius in my suburb. That is hot. Worse, it was also humid, so your sweat didn’t evaporate; it just sat in a slimy layer all over your skin. The best thing about being a writer is that you can ‘escape’ from the physical unpleasantness. You can imagine wearing air-conditioned underwear or living in an icy cave in the Antarctic.
Because it is so hot, I feel like estivating.