Here in D.C., it is about 3-million degrees out. In my office, the thermostat hovers somewhere around Meat Locker.
Welcome to summer in our nation’s capital.
Once upon a time, British diplomats used to get hardship pay for stints in Washington, same as if they were stationed in, you know, a war zone. Renumeration for service in a swamp. And Congress recessed in August not so members could press the flesh in their home districts but because hearing rooms were just too stifling. And then came air conditioning.
Look, it’s not that I like to sweat. But what’s up with office-building managers’ belief that the temperature should be kept somewhere in the neighbourhood of sub-Arctic all summer long? Look, I’m from the North, and I know from cold, and if the office was the same temperature in the fall, we’d be bemoaning the chill and petitioning for the heat to be turned on early. It’s impossible to dress for indoors and out — although some fellow enemies of air conditioning recommend a Snuggie — and when I arrived at the office today, I’m pretty sure the perspiration on my skin from my walk in had turned to a fine film of ice.
The sounds of summer? That’s my teeth chattering.