It’s so hot. So hot I can’t think, I can’t breathe. The sweat pools under my breasts, slides over my stomach and drops on my thighs as I type, I’m sticking to the leather chair. I can’t bear the thought of organising dinner, of even thinking about dinner, which might be a good thing except for the two teenagers who are hungry after their first day back at school. I’m wearing a gossimer thin sarong tied in a knot above my breasts – it’s too hot even for cloth on my shoulders, for a bra. And I’m wearing undies. Frankly I feel over-dressed but my children became unexpectedly prudish about a mother cooking in the nude. “Is that er… even hygenic?” And to complete the misery not only am I about to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West into a puddle on the floor but I’m finally over
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