E.M. Forster: Mr. Andrews

A Warning: it's that time of year where, given the current coordinates of yrs (truly!), you may be exposed to endless nattering about heat exhaust and revelation of podcasts recorded in ice-cubey bathtubs and a relentless boycott of any outergarment. And I hope you will consider this a proper warning because I will, as desperation sets in, become especially doting to those of you in Nordic states, at the poles, or even in climate controlled golf carts (solar-powered of course), I might beg, or quickly become your best friend. And so I tell you now: don't believe a word I say! I'll survive! And even if it would be entertaining to try and mail myself to you packed in ice, I would never be able to afford the postage, and things can go horribly wrong (n.b. that Velvet Underground song about exactly such a situation). For my own postal sanity, then, I ask you most faithfully: listen not to what Miette might ask you do in coming months. Let her rant.

Now, back to melting the iced bath.