Today, for the second Wednesday in a row, a heatwave in San Francisco.
Eighty seven terrifying degrees.
You know, the combination of my bloodpressure medications, poor circulation in my legs, and extreme heat, leads to some pretty gnarly effects. It was like my legs were burning.
The level of all-round physical discomfort was rather stupendous.
From a health site I get the following hardly comforting information: Medicine for high blood pressure [ -- ] may cause fainting, stroke, or far worse, during heat waves.
Most articles mention two specific medications I'm taking. Nice! Damned kids get off of my tropical grassland and out of my rainforest!
Oh sure, hot weather from the end of August all the way through September, perfect for chili peppers, which are the most important crop in California by a very long shot, and delightful late evenings in North Beach wandering around hepped to the gills on cappuccinos. But the same heat did not feel nearly as hot then. It's a Millenial plot, tell ya what, and I shall compose an angry letter to the editor!
It kinda reminds me of the pudgy girl at the laundromat.
That was decades in the past.
A few years ago, when I was still recuperating from an operation (my appendix had gone kablooey) a meal at a chachanteng on Stockton Street was memorable because of the afternoon sun streaming in. An oven!
[Lunch had been a baked porkchop over spaghetti, covered with melted cheese. Not a wise choice on a hot day.]
Last year I had what I thought was the perfect plan to cope with the heat on Labour Day; Hospitals and clinics have air-conditioning and back-up generators, right? I would head down to the hospital and sit in the waiting area of the clinic, and if anyone asked what I was doing there I would happily explain that I was there for my doctor's appointment. Then, an hour or so later, they'd approach me again and say "we've checked the schedule, you are twenty five hours early! It isn't till Tuesday!" At which point I'd apologetically claim a senile moment, don't mind me, I'll leave soon. And simply wait for the shift change so that we could go through all of that again, by which time it would probably be evening, and far cooler.
Except that I couldn't even leave the apartment building.
Too damned hot outside.
I found out later that they were closed for the holiday anyway.
The problem with staying home poncing around lazily in your underwear is that you cannot step outside for a pipe full of tobacco dressed like that, and your apartment mate has sensitive eyes. So I'll probably mention that in my angry letter to the editor.
This, too, is a modern evil.
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