The canicule brings on a state of torpidity.
Two words we don’t use often here.
Heat wave and listlessness–brought on by excessive heat.
I’m writing this at ten to ten in the evening and my arms are perspiring–(more than you need to know I suspect).
We haven’t taken the cats for their stroll tonight.
Beau looks forward to this ritual now and the other night when we were headed to Lautrec for the samba evening he watched us from the cemetery wall with a look of disappointment in his eyes–I swear.
Even Lucien the adopted tigré (tabby) whose arthritis makes him hobble, managed a crooked tail-rise as he made his way up the hill towards us, remembering past evening perambulations with Butterscotch and Marmalade.
Pippa, the mother of all cats, hung back as usual awaiting our return.
I always suspect she regrets not coming with us–in the end.
Tonight it’s too hot to move anywhere–even with the fans blowing full strength.
La Depeche du Midi–the local daily–was full of gloom this morning, reminding everyone of the 2003 canicule, when upward of 15,000 people died, saying this heatwave will be on that scale.
That mustn’t happen again–so warnings are in order.
Lucien is taking heed–sacked out on the sofa!