I don't know about where you are, but it's hotter than an aborigine's armpit here in the Garden of England.
Only the British can moan about the weather like we do. It's either too bloody hot or
cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey. Still, I'd rather have some weather to whinge about than it being hot/cold all day, every day.
When serving on the Grey Funnel Line in my yoof, I spent some time out in the tropics and after a couple of weeks of relentless heat, it became boring.
I used to dream about waking up to the sound of English rain, pissing down for all its worth.
After much nagging from she who must be obeyed, I finally got around to getting my hair cut today. I like my hair cut short. Not just short back and sides short, but short.
For those of you unfamiliar with short technology, I usually have a number 3 (occasionally 2) attachment on the clippers. I can just about get away with that with 'er indoors - no shorter.
The missus is away for another fortnight.
I have just had a number 1.
I am practically bald and it's great.
No doubt when she reads this, I will be in the dog house with Barney, but by the time she gets home it will have grown sufficient for my life to be saved.
Aren't I a brave little soldier.