In hot water

The cold tap refuses to run cold. No matter how long I let it run. Usually, it takes a while for the water in the pipes to flush through the 200 metres or so from the water tanks, handily positioned just at the end of our street. But in the summer months, no amount of waiting makes a discernible difference. I've gone to drinking water that is beyond tepid, beyond lukewarm, and definitely verging on what I would ordinarily describe as 'hot'. An interesting experience. Fred tells me that room temperature water is actually more quickly absorbed by the body. He says drinking cold water slows down hydration because the body has to warm the water up first. No problem in that department right now. Come on down, ready for you.

Shimmering does not adequately describe the heat of the days here during January and February. Yes, I know it's the desert. I should expect a little heat. The biting quality of this heat though, which continues well towards sunset, is extreme. Yesterday I made the mistake of deciding to go for a jog at 5.30pm. A short half hour down the bore road, up to the airstrip and back home. With the sun not yet at the horizon, but I thought close enough, I was only 5 minutes into my jog (plastered with sunscreen) when I knew it'd been a bad decision. Exposed areas of skin were tingly from the heat in the ground, the air, the sun, the shrubs. I could feel my skin burning. A radiating heat that saps all energy and makes a short jog like this seem like an event worthy of a number pinned on my back. Only freshly back to the sport after a 6 week break, I unfortunately had to slow my progress home by slipping back to walking. There wasn't much option though. In this heat, even at my fittest, I don't think I could have run the whole way.

Days like this remind me of my first summer in Warburton, in 2006. I was sharing an old staff house (one of the first built), and as is usually the case with staff houses of a certain vintage, the airconditioners were both insufficient and prone to failure. I recall melting butter to make a cake by taking it out of the fridge and putting it in the mixing bowl. Presto. The fruit was hot. The chairs were hot. The cutlery was hot. The room took on a sauna-like quality, our sweat adding the necessary water. At the time, in my early adventurous days, it was all part of the experience. I think I would be less patient now. It's enough to have the moment of stepping outside hit you with a whoosh, expelling the air from your lungs, and replying, as if to the forebearing earth itself, 'phew, it's a hot one today'.