Heatwave

There’s a heatwave at the moment. It said so in the newspaper, although they were talking about Sydney. The Central Coast is Greater Sydney, so whatever happens there happens here, too, more or less. Less rain, more heat.

The sweat is pouring down my neck, soaking the blouse I’m wearing. I used to hate cold weather and bundling myself up in jumpers, but now I wish it was just a little bit cooler. I can’t think in a heatwave; my brain feels hazy. Before I’ve even done anything, I’m tired, and though I have about four or five things planned this afternoon—paying bills, working on my novel, reading a bit about how to publish, and maybe some drawing—I soon give up and spend the rest of the afternoon reading a book someone else wrote, probably as they were drinking red wine in front of an open fire with snow falling in a picture window.

I weigh more in the heat. Every time I step on the scales, I’m disappointed with myself, even though I can’t find any extra fat on my love handles.

I roll around in bed trying to get to sleep. My mind is occupied with thoughts of heatwaves past. One I remember in the big old house where I went to primary school. I remember sitting on the stairs that led to somewhere I wasn’t allowed and staring at the hazy air above me. There were no lessons that day, but no joy, either.

The next heatwave I remember was thirty years later. The sky was grey and fires were burning in southern Sydney. The sun was a big, red, hazy orb. I went outside for a cigarette and it felt like I was entering an oven. My throat felt like razor blades, even before I lit up. Swallowing didn’t help. Nothing did.

There seem to be more and more heatwaves lately. More and more fires. And I seem less and less able to cope.