Its just shy of 37º centigrade. Its strange how what I'm told is my normal body temperature sits well on the inside, but out here I'm all sweat-and-wheres-the-shade. I'm watching the leaves outside my kitchen window the way I assume sniper's check them on the battlefield. I doubt someone runs around, pre-testerone measuring, placing wind flags at regular intervals. Where was I going with this half-baked *see what I did there? I promise I'll stop* analogy? Yes heat, no leaf movement. I'm taking a cheap vacation i.e. I'm going to pick up a book and read, seeing as the only thing my effort's good for right now is complaining that its too hot. As is my prerogative to hold two thoughts at once - the temperature dipped a couple of weeks ago and I actually heard myself grumbling about how wasn't it supposed to be summer nye nye who wants winter blah blah. Before I slink away to find some prose heres a little poetry from Tredinnick's Quartert For The End of Time.