I am not built for this weather.
At first, it's a charming novelty. Rays of sunshine dance over Dublin, making the city sparkle. Everyone is eating ice-cream as their forearms are pickled pink. In my village, "the lads" proudly display their topless pasty chests and "the gurlos" wear shorts so small that they're practically getting a gynie exam with every step.
Nearly every house on the block has put a patio table and chairs in their front garden and neighbors compare perspiration rates over walls and bushes. An oul fella outside the pub loudly begins singing Band Aid for some unknown reason, and each time someone scores in the World Cup there's a chorus of joy/despair from drinking punters.
I take it all in as I sit in the garden, smiling at the nuances of it all. But I am not built for this weather. My pale skin shrieks from the sunlight, my dark hair a crown of flames atop of my overheated frame. I guzzle water like a dying fish. My clothes are unbearably uncomfortable and I have a persistent desire to find an ocean or river, strip off and dive in.
But these annoyances are nothing compared to the titanic battles that occur at bedtime. Attempting to cool the room and block out noise becomes an equation I cannot solve. My insomnia returns with a smug "Ah-Ha!" and instead of resting, I spend hours tossing and turning in my bed, rearranging pillows and sheets. My sleeping tablets do nothing to aid me, so I read and write and think.
In the mornings, there's not enough coffee in the world to make me feel rested. I'm a crabby crank and I know it. The nuances of the village now grate on me as I sit in the garden, trying to read. I snap at simple questions and try and remember the last time I had a decent nights rest.
Finding Nemo coffee mug is the only thing keeping me going
I get bursts of energy and I am a woman possessed; my brain a frenzy of electrical currents, my sentences and conversations alight with vigor. I complete a short story in a day. I consume the philosophies of David Hume and find inspiration for stories everywhere. I make millionaires shortbread and cook dinner - in a light cotton dress so I don't pass out from the heat.
Even the poor cat isn't able for this. He rubs up against my leg, miaowing his discontent. I quote Game of Thrones to him ("It's okay Beau, Winter is Coming") and I briefly wonder if I've finally lost the plot. Then I realise one can't lose what one never had and it's all okay.
He follows me into the kitchen where he discovers a saucer of milk and devours is it with a greedy thirst. Whatever about a horse and water, turns out a cat and milk is a different bag all together.
Like a grumpy old woman, I tell friends how I long for Winter. I soliloquy about pouring rain, howling wind, crunchy leaves, hot chocolate, open fires and mittens. While the rest of the country revels in the heatwave, I'm dreaming of Christmas.
But most of all, I'm dreaming of dreaming. After the bursts of energy, I'm mentally exhausted. My limbs keep moving but my mind cannot keep up. If it weren't for my wide hips, I would look like a heroin addict thanks to the bags under my eyes. Well, my wide hips and make-up.
I wait for the heat to break. I long for the rain to come. I pray to be lulled into sleep. I will not be restored until this happens. God help us all.