work

The building in which I work is an exemplar of brutalism–you can see it in all its glory here–and is built up on the side that is not featured in the image, which is also the side on which you may find my office.  Those tiny shutter-style windows that mean in winter the whole floor tends to bleakness have protected my officemates and me from the worst of the heat.

What heat it is.  Lift conversations, a fairly good index of what’s on the building’s mind, are solely about the heat.  Even those with not yet much English can say “sooooo hoT!” with the emotive emphasis that transcends grammar.  My tutorial and I trekked across campus to our teaching room this morning to find that some wise soul had switched the heat pump on to eighteen degrees.  It was like teaching in a happy fridge.

I do not mind the heat too much, however, since days like this are small in number in summer, let alone in the calendar year.  I suspect my tendency to be sedentary helps in this regard, as does having hair long enough to tie back.  The dogs know how to position themselves in drafty doorways and stay very still, which helps them too, and means they need not lose their sightlines for regarding all that goes on in the world.

The poor señor works in a hot environment.  Even the late shift doesn’t cool off much.  He comes home, as Krusty once said of Homer, a steamed Gentile.  One might wish for a hot man around the house, but not like this.

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