Sweaty

I sat next to the devil on the train tonight.  He was fanning himself with a copy of Friday's Metro.  He turned to me and said, "My Christ, it's hot."

I am sitting and sweating.  Still.  The thing about this country is that it seems to get very sticky at night.  It's not actually that hot out now, but man, is it humid.  

I spent the evening at my friend Clive's.  Clive made dinner, which included Spanish chorizo (I used to make fun of him for pronouncing it "choritho" until we went to Spain and I found out that's actually how it's pronounced) and Dutch Edam.  He's a real citizen of the world.  Thanks for dinner, mate.  Too bad about Holland.

Now, my neck damp, I ponder whether to take a shower before bed.  I almost never shower at night, but I sleep much better having done so. Crawling into bed clean and smooth is such a great start to the night.

The World Cup is over, and I can go back to not paying any attention to sport for the next four years.  Ahh.  Bliss.  Maybe I'll take that shower now.

'Night.