The ridiculousness of my pasty English skin in the sun
There’s been a heatwave here. We hit 104 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday, which by my quick googling is just under 40 degrees Celsius. I’m not one for strutting in the sun; like Leonard Bast in Howards End, I’m more suited to walking awkwardly, gormlessly, and umbrella-less in the rain. But I can’t fight it any longer, I’m going to have to wear shorts. Yes, I know that stomachs may turn. My legs are whiter than burning magnesium, they make the transfiguration look like dysentery yellow in comparison.