Heat

It snowed last week on Monday. Someone even tried to build an igloo on the grass outside my apartment block. By Friday the temperature soared to 27°C and the gloves came off. Ha ha. Oh dear.

Overnight, my journey to work became a fight through a dense forest of perfectly tanned bare legs. Not only have the running shorts made a strong comeback, but I have had several unseasonally early sightings of the floral summer dress and denim hotpants. I even had one sighting of the rare exposed floral print underwear. Well at least I think I did, but I didn't hang around to check. In any case, I'm sure any young lady who had attended one of the Kingdom's many fine finishing schools would know not to go about reclining on benches with her knees in the air. Oh God, my poor defenseless eyes.

Returning to less specific subject matter, the overall effect has been to transform the campus into a rolling plane, roamed by herds of dun mares, whickering and snorting amongst themselves.
This has two effects on me: it makes me feel very old and it makes me wary. Old, because I am now definitely wandering the foothills of thirty and the students haven't even noticed the mountain yet. Wary, because I feel that if I am seen looking at a member of the opposite sex I will be branded a pervert. An old pervert.

How did noting the attractiveness of members of the opposite sex come to be labelled as 'perving'? Is it not the opposite of the dictionary definition? Ironically, homosexuality was a perversion, but now it's been downgraded to a class C drug, and all the cool kids are doing it. I would have thought that 'perving' would, for instance, be not looking at people you found attractive at all, or instead judging their relative merits as light fittings or items of tupperware.

Thankfully I don't really have much to worry about, because looking at girls has long been something I've trained myself to avoid (and as a bonus, most people seem to look straight through me anyway). This is a result of my childhood (and teenage) (and young adulthood) inability to look people in the eye, unless I knew them really well. With males this was not such an issue, I could face them and just look down slightly, giving them the impression that they were conversing with a rational human being. With females looking down slightly meant looking straight at breasts. This meant panic. Which meant look up. Which meant eyes. Which meant look down. And repeat. With each cycle I would overcompensate slightly, until I was looking at feet then sky, with the blurred image of a person in between. This is similar to something that I believe people who fly helicopters call 'pilot induced oscillations' and didn't stop until my eyes were spinning wildly in my skull. No doubt to the observer my behaviour was startling, and this before I had even started insulting her.

The vast expanses of flesh have one final consequence. They make my ongoing failure to provide mother dearest with grandchildren weigh heavy on my mind. I'm sure it weighs heavy on her mind too. She practically hissed earlier when I told her that most of the members of my hiking club are older than me. Even my ex boss was concerned by my single status, once helpfully advising me,
"Why can't you get a girlfriend and be more stable like your officemates?"
It is heartwarming to know that so many care for my well being.

At the risk of sounding demanding though, while good looks, a healthy coat and a set of teeth that don't get popped in a glass of water at night are all important qualities that I look for in a mate, I have something of a fetish for brains. Perverse. And I am constantly reminded that these are in short supply. A bus journey provides an excellent example as usual. If it arrives early at a major stop the bus stays put for a few minutes and if there is a bus from another route also stopped then the drivers have a habit of getting out and chatting to each other. Today the conversation was within earshot and our driver asked the other driver how she was.
"I'm justing getting over a nasty bout of bird flu" came the reply. This was a joke. I could tell based on her tone and because she wasn't in quarantine (I know there are less virulent forms passed to humans, but still it would be enough to excite the media).
"Oooh", exclaimed the girl sitting behind me. Not with alarm or disbelief, but mild interest.
"Huh?", grunted her friend.
"She says she's just had bird flu. You know, avian influenza".
"Oh". Complete disinterest.
I turned round to look at the monosyllabic party. She was a nursing student. I could tell because it said so on the pocket of her white coat.

Still, perhaps summer dresses do make the world a better place. Maybe I'll buy myself one.

Of course, all this talk about women is a result of my jenga and orienteering based bias. For the benefit of my female readers (heterosexual model) or any flymosexuals, I should note that the warm weather has also led to a change in wardrobe for the chromosomally impaired of this great nation and many manly legs are on show, from the chicken scrawny to the bestially hairy. This season, the sophisticated gentleman about town would never dream of stepping out his front door without his baggies, sports team t-shirt (with big numbers on) and tennis shoes. The effect is delicately finished by blazing white socks and a baseball cap with pre-curled bill, the perfect substitutes for a folded handkerchief and a carnation through the buttonhole.