Phop, phop, phop.

The sound of a fan mere inches from my gonads. The slightest of  slips and, in spectacular fashion, all hope of future Sebastians goes down the drain. Earlier, some of my leg hair got caught between the blades and it hurt like buggery. A small price to pay for wind-chilled testicles though; if they get too hot it can make me impotent, right?

I took my shirt off hoping for a slight reprieve and it worked for a while. But now I’ve soaked through the chair I’m sitting in and not only am I hot, I’m sticky. Sticky.

I’m amazed that my keyboard hasn’t yet short-circuited. I’ve been looking into getting one of those plastic covers that they use in McDonalds to prevent them from getting gunged up with grease. Mind you, death-by-keyboard-electrocution has to be the best way a geek can go…

It’s made all the worse by spending 80 to 90% of my waking life in front of three computers, four screens and an amplifier that generates enough heat that my cats always flock to it in the winter. It’s about 3 kilowatts in total, which is great in winter… but not in the summer. Perhaps I should get out more I often find myself thinking as I swing around in my computer chair, waving my arms about like a retard and desperately trying to create a breeze.

But in a brief moment of clarity I realise I shouldn’t be moaning or despairing: melting into an amorphous puddle of goo in a bedroom surrounded by high-tech equipment with a tall glass of cold, clean water is a lot more desirable than passing out in the wild undergrowth of Central Anatolia, Turkey.

And so it is, with gooey stumps that would make a leper proud, with gangly digits that were once well-formed and finely-honed typing machines, I write this entry.

I had planned to write something else, something deep, but the pervasive heat is debilitating. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the few times I’ve almost died of heatstroke or dehydration. What a thrilling topic for a blog entry. I’ve interspersed a few pretty photos to make it less boring.

June 29th 2009, Sussex, England

(See picture at start of entry)

Consumed four pints (2 litres) of water… and sweated it all out again through my fingers. Laptops should be outlawed in the summer. Sat outside in the sun for a while hoping the breeze would somehow utilise the sweat that glistens from every part of my body. No breeze, just felt like my brain was being baked while still safely within the confines of my skull. The feeling of sweat dripping from under your arms onto your hips and legs is quite unique, but not entirely unpleasant.

July 2007, Cappadocia, Turkey

In hindsight it was perhaps rather stupid to take a taxi ride out into the middle of nowhere and then pick my way over the weird and wonderful ‘moonscape’ terrain of Cappadocia. On a normal day I guess it would’ve just been silly, but in the middle of summer with temperatures reaching over 40C (100F) and only a small bottle of water it was stupid. I was very nearly a winner of my very own Darwin Award. As with most of my recent exploits, it was obviously to take photos — and it was probably worth it, despite the near-death experience. Check out the lovely hand-carved cave that I found while crawling along the ground, gasping for air and praying that someone would find me, or I would find civilisation. This is probably over 1500 years old!

Somewhere in South England, 1996

I actually keeled over in some woodlands by school, back when I was 12. We’d been exploring (as kids do, when they go to private schools in the countryside and they’re skipping a class they don’t like) and… I guess I pushed it too hard. I’ve never been the fittest person in the world — the thought of exercising just for the sake of being fit is completely foreign to me — I always thought I’d rather be reading or sitting in front of a computer learning something.  The pen is mightier than the sword, right?

Anyway, where was I…

Yes, I passed out in the woods and my friends had to carry me back to school. I am told that, to avoid getting into trouble, they conjured up a great story that involved me being bitten by a snake. Unfortunately, we had leaves and twigs in our hair — oops!

Ostia Antica (30 miles from Rome), October 2008

Instead of Pompeii I decided to go to Ostia Antica, an ancient ruin that has always been overshadowed by its volcanically-preserved sister. I think Pompeii is meant to be in better condition but a) Ostia Antica is only half an hour instead of 4 hours from Rome, and b) it’s almost completely devoid of tourists — so I went to Ostia and it was awesome! Except for the nearly-dying bit.

For the 8 hours I was there I saw three people — and we’re talking about a large city that once had a population of 75,00 people! Originally it had acted as the harbour city of ancient Rome between the 7th century BC and 4th century AD, and some pesky Arab pirates finally caused its downfall in the 9th century. Anyway, I ended up very lost in some ancient Mithraic catacombs; lost and without water.. in the dark. Let me tell you something: ancient religious sites are scary. Dark and scary and damp and silent… except the occasional skitterings of creatures you will never see. I will write about it properly as my travel stories of Italy have finally reached Rome — but the point is… actually, I don’t know what the point is.

Why am I writing in this weather? I’m going to look for another fan…

As I write this, bear in mind two things: a) our heating is broken. It’s currently about 5 degrees (40F) in my room; my breath is condensing and I can’t feel my nose, fingers or anything below the waist, and b) I haven’t had sex in a while now. So I am cold and frustrated and the owner of a penis. [If this is all 'too much information' and you find yourself reeling, you certainly shouldn't visit Lilu's blog.]

Now, most people often refer to penis-wielders as ‘fortunate’ or penises themselves as ‘useful’. Even in a worst-case scenario, a penis is functional. But you (girls) are all glossing over the most important feature of the penis: it’s external.

You know how, when you go outside in the cold, you slowly lose sensation in your ears? Or your nose? Or your toes? The same happens to men with penises (ambiguity intentional and necessary in today’s politically correct world).

I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that very few of you have ever seen a shrivelled-up penis. You’ve probably not even seen many flaccid penises: it’s the kind of thing that most men keep wrapped up in their underwear — for a reason. The non-erect penis is really not all that great. You see, popular culture has portrayed man — and the mighty penis — as an object of utility and dominance. But only when it’s erect.

The flaccid penis is useless. It hangs there, exposed, sensitive, wrinkled. I don’t think women appreciate just how safe it is to have internal bits. Do women have to coax their genitals into a satisfactory position for urination? Do women have to reach into their boxers with ice-cold hands and dredge out their dilapidated dong?

Let’s not forget we also have testicles. They’re odd things, nuts; I think you’d be hard-put to find many people that actually dig balls. If you ask 1000 random guys for their favourite part of their anatomy, I doubt any of them would say ‘my balls’. That’s because they too are external and highly sensitive. They also get in the way. We can’t cross our legs properly, and if we jump and land badly, we can crush them. Again, when it’s cold, they also shrivel up until we look almost pre-pubescent. They suck themselves right up into our pelvis, which is an experience unlike any other I assure you — it is only topped by the experience of them, for want of a better term, descending again.

The whole ice-cold hands thing also applies to nuts, by the way. At least with your penis you have thick skin protecting you from the immediate, freezing sensation of cold, fumbling hands — not so with testicles. They’re all thin and soft and very sensitive to heat (they’re designed to radiate heat, to keep the little spermatozoa cool, y’see).

I think I should spend a little more time illustrating the pitfalls of the penis: if you’ve seen a flaccid penis, you’ll know that they are generally small. Some are larger than others, but generally we’re talking 2 or 3 inches — 5-8cm. Do you want to know how small it gets when it’s cold? Well, I measured this morning, as I climbed out of bed (alas, morning glory would be a fine and fortunate thing): 3cm! THREE CENTIMETERS! 1 inch!

Once that tasty tidbit has settled in, now imagine trying to manipulate that perky pecker with frigid fingers. You can’t simply pee au naturale because it sticks out horizontally — you gotta angle it. It’s even worse if you have a foreskin, incidentally, as you have to try and roll it back — seriously, it’s just HORRIBLE.

So next time, when you audaciously (and ignorantly) claim that men in general and penises in specific are ‘cool’ or ‘much more functional than my darn vagina’, think again, missy.

Dabiiiithhh & Got it licked.

Seb: I’m always surprised when I bump into an old friend. First it’s that pleasant ‘Oooh! HELLO!’, but it’s swiftly followed by a rather nice, warm sensation inside as I realise, hang on, I actually have a friend!

It happens almost every time I leave the house actually. All these friends… just… waiting! Biding their times in the shadows, waiting to be… FRIENDLY!

This photo was taken at a wedding. It was very hot and sticky. I felt sorry for the bridegroom’s troupe and their under-shirts, shirts, waistcoats and tails. The bridegroom was my cousin — which was nice, because a) he’s lovely, and b) it buys the rest of us a little more time. The mothers and aunts and grandmothers and great aunts are going to get their babies; they are sated… for now!

I wonder how late I can leave the whole getting married thing…

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Abi: I don’t want to speak too soon but I think that Summer might have arrived in Britain. At the very least it popped in for a brief visit this weekend. It has been absolutely roasting (by UK standards, believe me temps of 25 degrees plus are A Big Deal) and everyone has been making the most of it.

Much mockery is often made regarding the British preoccupation with the weather, I have to admit that watching the entire population lighting Barbecues and baring their lily-white legs is really amusing. It is like an epidemic, we just can’t help ourselves.
As I have said here before, the British aren’t especially good at extreme weather. We can’t just enjoy it for what it is. A hot day is instantly branded “A Heatwave” and judging by the amount of sunburn I have seen about the place this weekend, people have decided to do an entire seasons worth of sunbathing in one day. Not entirely sensible, but then if you lived with the English drizzle, you might understand.

And so, where there is sun, there is ice cream (or “Skeem” if you want to use my childhood word for it). I am not sure if it is because I appear deprived, or that my friends secretly think I need fattening up (unlikely) but I have been bought three ice creams today. Thats surely not healthy. I didn’t eat all three of them, two are in the freezer, waiting for the next tarmac-melting occasion.

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The Chair & The Commute

Seb: It might not look like much — and the arm lock is broken on one side, so it limps and wilts to the left — but it’s my chair.

I have written short stories, blog posts and treatises on human nature — all from a dirty white deck chair. It’s where I read, too. I finished Pride & Prejudice to the sound of birds tweeting at me from their nestled seclusion just a few feet away.

It’s also where I get my regimented 15 minutes of sunshine every day, to keep the Vitamin D stocks up. At 3pm every day I emerge from my bedroom and perform an excellent impersonation of a small subterranean animal. After ten minutes I begin to open my eyes… and five minutes later I scamper back into my bedroom, to the warm glow of my four computer monitors.

Despite the tranquillity of this shot — check out the heat haze obscuring the chair! — it was actually taken at half time during the England vs. Germany match. I actually wanted to burn a flag on the grass… but I don’t own any England flags. How miserably unpatriotic.

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Abi:

I need to buy a bike. I walk to and from work every day and after much experimentation with routes, have finally settled on a path that is pretty AND quicker than the others I had been taking. It takes me over the river, past the floating harbour and through Queens Park. The only thing that would make it perfect is the bike, so I’m working on that. It seems that I am not alone in choosing this as the best way into the city. A lot of other people seem to favour it too and at certain times of the day it can get pretty busy!

I took this on my way home this evening. Reflected is the Louisiana Pub near the Floating Harbour and some guy with a bald patch. But we know nothing about him apart from the fact he walks into work like I do.

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