It's been very humid in Londres for a the last week, and the strain is starting to show. I woke up this morning more tired than when I turned in last night. And the missus was complaining of a headache when she slid out of the nuptial bed too. All of this I think can be ascribed to humidity.
It's a funny thing, the aitch-word. Yes, it's vaguely uncomfortable, but nothing insurmountable - at least that's what one thinks. Actually, the water vapour is waging a subliminal war of attrition against your mental resolve the whole time.
I was in Valencia on holiday a couple of years ago. Valencia is famed for its high humidity. We'd arrived straight from Madrid, which was plenty hot, and assumed we'd be acclimatised. No chance. Although the nominal temperature in Valencia was lower, and it's on the coast, the humidity made the simplest task take on a Herculean dimension. You literally couldn't walk 150 yards without wanting to stop for a coffee. It was draining. It's just as well I was wearing flip-flops because had I bent over to tie up a shoe lace, I'd have finished the holiday inside an iron lung. We spent our entire stay there either in the air-conditioned apartment or nostrils-deep in the Med.
The situation isn't quite so pronounced here in England, but the combined effects of a calendar week of humid restless nights and full-time employment has laid everyone low. One of my young colleagues was bemoaning his fatigued state earlier. I set him straight. I dare say it'll snow or something next week, and normal service will be resumed.
All this damage from tiny drops of water - whoddahfunkitt eh?
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