Dry Heat

I am English, so you’ll forgive the incessant reference to the weather. But it is simply and absolutely necessary to convey to you in Blighty just how roasted I am feeling. Actually, roasted is not the right word – roasted conjures images of juicy meats and succulent vegetables. I do not feel juicy and succulent. I feel shriveled and dried. Crisp. Parched.

I am a forgotten pottery in an overheated kiln. I am a neglected piece of dough in a smoldering pizza oven.

Shrivel.