For weeks now people have been commenting on the clement weather in Los Angeles. "It's just like Santa Barbara," they say, "so cool and breezy," "not like last year." Platitudinous comment have now flown out the window, as we've been hit by 100 degree temperatures. It's the kind of heat that makes you grumpy, keeps you inside, because being outside on the wooden deck tending to one's blight-stricken tomatoes burns the bottoms of your feet. It's the kind of heat that makes me decide to leave my dogs at home instead of taking them to the horse show in Burbank because I can see their little spotted bodies sweltering, their paws baking, and both of them crouching under cars for some shade.
Minky, who's been known to faint in this kind of weather (on at least three occasions) has been fairly circumspect. She wore a pale, long-sleeved t-shirt, poured water and ice into a portable bottle, brought snacks, slathered her face in sunscreen. Today we're bracing ourselves.
This is the very worst time of year in LA. For the rest of the time our weather is enviable, our lifestyle louche (to all who view from outside) and living is, comme ils disent, easy. This is when I long to be in the grey and rainy Scottish highlands.