It looked warm and sunny out this morning, and I had had the fan on all night as I slept, so I got dressed in last year's silver thong sandals, my thinnest black skinny trousers and a plain, loose, white tee shirt and had a light chicken salad and some chilled water for lunch in my best efforts to remain refreshed and unruffled. Then I left the flat and stepped out on the street and boom! Right into the blast of someone's hot air-dryer. Or so it seemed. But no! Alas, I was mistaken, it was just the lovely end-of-June air blowing a gentle breeze across my face. Or rather, the lovely end-of-June 40º gale blowing its way into the City from the lovely and cool Sahara desert. Running late, as always, I could barely move through the soup-like air to cross the bridge but the plus-side was that my wavy hair was poker-straight by the time I staggered into the office to be greeted by puzzled glances at my otherwise dishevelled appearance. And immediately broke into a sweat. Or, as I am a lady, began to glow, as my grandmother would have me say.
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