A very British preoccupation...
Yes, this month's voice clip is a nod, not so subtly, to our forever unpredictable weather.
But far from the usual moaning and groaning (too hot, cold, damp, humid, bitter, dull) its recent lofty status of 'heatwave' has led me to discover the 21st Century British poet, John Stammers - a fabulous name for anyone, let alone a poet - and his award-nominated works of contemporary life.
Hailing from Islington, if wiki is to be believed, my favourite quote on his poems is from his blog page:
'a frame of reference ranging from the scabrous to the desolately chic, as if Tristan Corbière were trying to get over an affair with Angelina Jolie.'
Sadly, the name I had to look up was Tristan Corbiere.
His 'Like a Heatwave Burning' has some wonderful observations and witticisms and felt just right to record as we approach our second blast of desert heat and the idea of wearing a coat seems as absurd as going on holiday...
Like A Heatwave Burning by John Stammers
It was the hottest summer on record; we flew into rages at the drop of a pin. The heat made cacti of us all.
I woke up hot crazy at one in the morning. The day’s sun had heated up the sky so heavy it felt like being ironed.
We sat on the curbside like hot bananas and Jane read me the Miranda of our future lives together:
there would be no future lives together. I’d never heard the nightjay squawk so damnably shrilly in the still, still stilly.
My eyeballs made sinuous rills. I sloughed on my sandals and loped onto a streetcar named expire.
Tyres welded cars to the road. I got out my character and began the tasks of a lifetime.
Pine trees collapsed in a dead swoon all over the place. Believe you me, honeydew features, it was hot.