Thursday, 12 September 2013

Blip: Curse you, oppressive lord of the sky!

As any regular readers will have noticed, or indeed anyone that checks the dates on blogposts, we stopped posting since the Imperialist politi-rant of July 1st. The reason for this prolonged absence was that some cattle we ritualistically slaughtered belonged to unconquerable Hyperion, the mighty, yet vengeful, sun god. He drove his flaming chariot above us for some time, raining down his fury upon we insolent few.

Sadly, this led to a country-wide heat wave that lasted some time. Our bad.

The effects of heatstroke, sunstroke, dehydration and general heat exposure are well-documented and well-bemoaned but, in defiance of possibly incurring further divine punishment, I’ll add my testimony to the list of those people that can’t cope with comparatively minor temperature changes.

Also, if this post seems like an intellectual come-down from the more philosophically and politically minded posts of the before time, it really says more about you than it does about me, given that you read the title of this post but felt more reading was necessary to determine the calibre of its content. Anyway, enough fan-bashing.

So when the heat first started, I didn’t give up immediately and neither did Pop; we both continued as best we could but came up against the same dirt-block when, after spending an hour writing out a draft for a post, we’re granted a moment of passing lucidity only to be confronted with a blank page and a tear-stained keyboard. That is, until the true heat kicked in and our bodily fluids soon dried up.

Perhaps it’s just personal preference but when the window edges are frosted over and typing a blogpost requires free hands outside of the vitally thick gloves, which leads to my fingers draining of life, I still muddle through and can get my thoughts together fine. I just have to gargle de-icer and write out the posts in shifts. However, when the opposite is true, my mind just leaks from my ears and all that’s left inside is a dubstep-shaped duck named Brian who gives me sceptical looks and questions my life, and biscuit, choices.

When the air is thick, the problem worsens by an order of magnitude. Breathing shouldn’t feel like drowning in custard but it certainly did only a few days ago. The time has melted together along with the rest of my structured thought.

In true British fashion, the heat ended with a huge thunderstorm that lasted about 30 seconds. One raincloud, two lightning strikes, three weak showers and it’s over. Then to cool but murky air and grey rolling skies in a world of miserable monochrome. The sound of wet tyres moving by the window due to perpetually wet streets and piercing draughts of cold air sweeping across the floors. In short, heaven.

With relative paradise regained, the blog is to start again too and, after this post, the gap will never be mentioned again.


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