Tropical heat wave?

IF ANYTHING, it's even hotter and muggier than before.

And the temperature seems to be affecting others even more that me.

We arrive at the supermarket, and the first thing we encounter is a young couple, arguing at the top of their voices.

Mothers are snapping at their children, older people seem to be sagging under the burden of their discomfort.

Even the checkout ladies seems to be grumpier than usual.

We get our goodies home and packed away, just in time to get off for a recuperative drink before meeting up with our friends for our last-Monday-of-the-month dinner.

Our friends, at least, seem to be in good spirits, and the dinner is good - Italian, for a change (I have the meatballs in spaghetti in a Neapolitan tomato sauce).

We arrive home for about nine; My Good Lady gets herself changed into her nightwear while I open the bottle of wine which we're already selected and popped into the fridge door.

As we sup, I gaze out at the sky, at the sun sinking behind hazy clouds, and I can almost wish for a good downpour of rain, just to clear the air.

As I put My Good Lady to bed, I remind her of the those tropical nights in St Lucia, and of our bed there where we had to sleep on the sheets, not in them, because it was so hot.

MGL points out, though, that we had no glass in the windows, only mosquito screens, and an overhead fan to help stir the air.

And she reminds me, too, that when the rain fell it brought out the croaking of the tree frogs - tiny creatures about the size of a small fingernail, but with such deafening voices they made even the most exhausted sleep impossible.

"Just pretend we're in St Lucia again," I tell her, "only without the frogs!"

I don't think it's much comfort, though.