|sent from: London, UK. destination: Frankfurt, Germany|
I don’t know why people like the heat. They pour like ants onto the shimmering sidewalks. The Tube, deep underground, is [as] miserable in Summer as it is in Winter and everyday in between. Is this really the race that ruled the Indian subcontinent? They seem so ill-prepared for the heat – the blistering skin, pale like a prisoner’s freshly shaved pate, anxious for punishment.
I sit in my office, a small fan blowing what little air there is into my face and rustling a stack of untended-to papers around. If I went into the street I was sure to encounter trouble. Little did I know trouble was about to knock hard on my door.