Anyone reading this in Melbourne will be nodding their heads wearily when I describe my current mood as dog tired, drained to almost empty, ankles and brain fluid swollen and only having the energy to snap irrationally at people for the most trifling reasons. I think the Premier of Victoria warned us to stay indoors today not only out of bushfire risk, but because we’re all about to rip each other new arseholes for not saying please and thank you.

I just want this weather to fuck the hell off in exchange for a day’s rain, just one day to remember the smell of water and to wash a layer of the baked-on dust from every car, building and what’s left of the foliage.

I met a friend for a drink last night and the drive to the hotel got hotter and more tense on the sizzling skidpan of the freeway. By the time I arrived I was layered in five coats of dried sweat and regretted leaving the relative sanctity of the darkened house.

The soft drinks out of the squeezy nozzles at the bar are too sweet for my taste and after guzzling some water I ordered a glass of dry white wine. The bloody drink took forever when the bartender disappeared around the corner without warning. Where the hell is my drink, huh, huh? You’d better not be serving someone else! He eventually returned, swirling a glass full of ice cubes and said the glasses were too warm and he wanted to chill one so my drink was cold. How quickly did I get the guilts and want to give him a sweaty bear hug?

Crank-o-meter: fuck off summer