Indian summer: relapse

The more hopes and aspirations you save for the weekend these days the more disappointing it would turn out. The recent disaster of May heat repeated itself in the guise of June heat, yet the essence changed very little. I woke up on Sunday around 9 am just to realize my room had been already well warmed up by the bastard- sun that wakes up well before me anyway. The ceiling fan in my room was still trying hard, as if we both did not know it was a Sisyphean toil: kicking hot air does not help – the air remains hot.
Yet, my stamina was sufficient for some food intake and even for reading a couple of texts that required a serious cognitive effort. However, by Sunday morning the solid part of my enthusiasm was gone and the energy left was hardly sufficient for the breakfast. After which I slept off… Trying to keep my time at least a bit useful and meaningful I wrapped myself in a soaking wet huge scarf and opened a book. Idly sliding on the pages I was huddling up as the feeling of the wet scarf spread out on my body was hardly comfortable; but soon I got annoyed as the scaft dried so quickly that I had to interrupt my reading and to soak the scarf in close-to-boiling tap water again and again. Yet, both the wet scarf as a manual fan, as referred by Janet, my flatmate, and the reading as the most active way to fill in my leisure time – were those two things I could afford for then…