I don’t particularly understand the science behind climate change, but I understand that it’s coming. That actually, it’s already here. I understand that we’ve mined and farmed and automated for too long and the damage is irreparable. I understand that it’s too late to turn back.
And when I leave work just after 11pm into a dark, 30 degree night, I feel it. I don’t know if this is climate change or weather or if the two are indistinguishable now. But my skin itches and cries to the oppressive air. It hasn’t always been this hot, has it?
As I wind through the streets approaching midnight, strangers feel closer than usual, the thick heat connecting us. I cut an inelegant figure with my post-work hair and chafing thighs and glasses sliding down my nose. But they don’t care, they are dazed and drunk on sun, or something.
At home I don’t know whether or not to open the window. Is it still hotter outside than in? It’s December. I imagine jumpers and fires and my dad’s roast potatoes. I sweat on my sofa. And book a flight to England.
A version of this post was sent by email on the 8th December 2018 as part of Internet Care Package – a weekly memoir project in the form of a newsletter. It also includes links to the best things I’ve found on the internet each week and occasional updates on my theatremaking. This blog is a select archive of those emails. Subscribe to get them right in your inbox.