I wish I could book in these powerful heat surges at certain times of the day. Like now. Our 'office' is bloody freezing. My hands are shaking with cold: look can I book in a half hour of extreme mad surging heat so that I can do some writing without my brain feezing. Great, thanks.
Of course my desired half hour surge happens somewhere completely different. In a busy shop, or as I experienced the other day in the queue to board the plane at Stansted.
I had just put most of my clothes from my bag on my person in order to stuff my handbag into my other bag — possible tangent here to gripe about stupid Ryaniar bag thing — no, another time — a super wave of heat announced itself. It's an odd thing, something that men, bless them, and of course women who are younger, grrrr, could not comprehend. There's a slight warning, a lesser heat — you have approximately five seconds to remove all clothing down to your underwear before you expire. You can't really ignore it. Managed to get past the SS guard with my massive quantity of clothes as she was having a scrap with someone over a bag that wouldn't fit into the special measuring device, and walked into blissfully freezing air. Blissful until we then had to stand on the plane steps in a howling wind while someone couldn't find their boarding pass or rather, bit of ripped off paper that they had already shown to fifty members of staff in order to get that far. Put all my clothes back on, and then tried to take them all off again as my inner person decided it was time to rev up again as I reached the plane seat.