Plunging into the depths of hellALANA DIXON
This may not be a sentence oft-uttered here in London: It is very hot.
The city is in the grip of a level three heat wave.
I have no idea what that actually means, and in this heat I just can't be bothered googling to find out.
This is one of the most striking similarities between England and Southland: We love a good complain about the weather, no matter what it's up to.
Winter: Too cold; not enough snow, just slush; too much snow, stadium collapses.
Summer: Too hot; too windy at the beach; too dry to cook barbecue without fear of setting entire province alight.
I keep telling myself I survived a journey of several weeks on a non- air-conditioned bus throughout South America, in the middle of the southern hemisphere summer.
During this time I trekked through the Amazon. I spent two entire days at Iguau Falls in near- 100 per cent humidity. I schlepped around cities with my heavier-than- it-looks camera for hours.
Summer in the British Isles should be a breeze.
But this is some next level heat.
My hour-long-each-way trip on the Tube has become even more torturous than usual.
I don't know how many levels down the District Line actually is (again, Google + 30 degree heat + effort = unprintable words) but it's safe to say every time I am aboard, I feel like I have been plunged into the depths of hell.
Within minutes of getting on board, rivulets of perspiration dribble down the face of each and every commuter. And from our armpits.
Unfortunately, some people take the optimistic approach, and hope for the best - that this day, despite the scorching forecast, will be the day when they won't end up a sweaty, greasy mess.
So no point even bothering with the deodorant then, eh? There really is no more pleasant big city life experience than having your nose plunged right into a strange man's pongy armpit on the Tube.
Having to keep it there for six stops until half the carriage empties out at Earl's Court is even better.
I'm all for milking as much time as I can out of my snooze button each morning, but really guys?
In my opinion, Boris really needs to crack down. Crack down on smelly people.
Given that imposing a Rexona- compulsory law on commuters is fairly unlikely, I wish he'd do something else to help a sister out.
Forget about that airport extension everybody keeps waffling on about - instead how about some air conditioning on the Underground?
I've been here only since January, but my experience so far makes me think that the powers-that-be in London are playing some sick, real- life version of Oregon Trail, where they purposely don't shoot enough bison and everybody on the wagon ends up dying of dysentery.
London is an insane place to be right now.
Between the aforementioned heat wave, Andy Murray, last year's Olympics (yep, they're still talking about that - but let's face it, we would be too) and the royal baby, this summer feels like it's going to be a memorable one.
For the hundredth time, I am feeling lucky to be here in what's proving to be a very eventful year - you can have a lime snakebite anywhere, I s'pose, but I'm not sure it would taste as sweet as it does in London right now.
Especially in this weather . . .