Hoooooot. HOT. A bit like Jackson Lamb. Maybe.

I am not sure there is another household in Canada that matches us for illness. Thankfully, nothing serious, but consistent lurgey. Ottawacker Jr. is off again with a cold – or it might be an infection – or it might be… God knows what. In a country with a functional healthcare system – say like Haiti – we could probably get to see a doctor quicky. He or she would then tell us that Ottawacker needs surgey/two aspirin/a kick up the arse (delete as appropriate) and all would be well. Instead, we trust Mrs. Ottawacker and me. Neither of whom is qualified as a parent or an adult. Let alone a doctor.
 
Anyway, I am glad he is off today because the reports of the HEAT DOME are true. It is the HOTTEST heat doe in the HISTORY of the WORLD. 48°? I’ve boiled eggs at lower temperatures. We’ve done all the important things: closed curtains, watered plants, put big bowls of water out for wildlife, made sure that my left-over Camembert from Christmas was placed carefully under the back-door step of the troublesome neighbour at #93, all the usual stuff. But, it has to be said, it is still slightly warm.
 
We, however, are the fortunate ones. We have air conditioning. And while we are not keen to be the sort of person that stands in the window wearing a thick sweater and chilling Zubrówka over the air vents while everyone else is sweltering (unless that cow from #93 walks past, that is), it is nice to maintain a comfortable 24-25°. Don’t get me wrong – I am as entitled as the next person who claims not to be entitled. But at least I know which side my bread is buttered on. At least I know which side on my bread is buttered. At least I know …
 
Anyway, apart from the heat and Ottawacker Jr.’s lurgey, the day was rather productive. At least for the earlier portion… I had made the error of mentioning the novel to Jamie during his visit (alcohol always loosens the tongue) and he had spent a large portion of the flight back to Vancouver thinking about it and penning questions. It transpired, despite the lack of intelligence which being a friend of The Ottawacker obviously entails, that he had excellent questions. Most of them starting with “why?” And, I have to admit, most of them had not yet been answered – either by ChatGPT or me. SO, I got to thinking. And, indeed, writing. I had, in my newly allotted Time Structure, attributed an hour to the response. But, three hours later, there I was, still writing away. If I ever get to dedicate such impressive stretches of time to actually writing, I’ll have the frigging thing finished in a week.
 
And talking of impressive. Does anyone else hate that bastard Mick Herron? I’ve only just started reading the Slow Horses series. They are all lengthy tomes, but that absolute arse does not use a word too many. His prose is cutting and descriptive, serious and funny, eloquent and earthy. I’ve not seen the TV series – thanks Mike Jeffreys for pointing me in the right direction – but if it is half as good as the books, it must be magnificent. But, and here is the question, how hard does Herron make it for ordinary writing joes such as me to get started? Answers, on a postcard, to Blue Peter, at BBC TV.
 
Also managed a long overdue catch up with my friend Mark in London. He, who unknowingly holds the title of the smartest person I know, works at Reuter’s. I use him as a weather gauge as to whether we should pack up the car and head for remote countryside or not. He wasn’t exactly jumping up and down about the current situation of the world – but at least he thinks we have a couple of weeks before we need to panic. We shared plenty of anecdotes and decided that Laura Kuenssberg is the reason the world has gone to hell in a hand basket. I tried to convince him that it was also Hallie Cotnam, but he wasn’t having any of it.
 
Other than that, I managed to finally get hold of my brother to wish him a happy birthday. He’s off to Cyprus soon. I asked him, innocently enough, whether this was a good idea, given its proximity to places such as, oh, I don’t know, Israel. He looked at me stonily through the WhatsApp transmitted conversation and said that he knew. But the beer is cheap.