Feeling hot, hot, hot.

Ugh. Hot. Very, very hot. Like 30 degrees, indoors. And it's much cooler than yesterday. We're all dying from the heat. Actually, we're more all lying about wilting and complaining about the heat. The windows are all open, there's a fan on, but it makes no difference.

And it's not global warming. It's just a rather good summer. People have just forgotten what those are like.

On the upside, it's a good excuse to drink a lot of rosé and white wine, since that's mostly what's cold in the fridge.

Unfortunately, it's so hot I can't bring myself to write. Who can get their brains to work when they're sticky and sweltering? I just like to lie around reading travel books and wondering how dead we will be when it's summer in Australia. I've got some nice surf shorts-not that I'll ever be doing any surfing, I'm far too scared of sharks and jellyfish-for taking to Oz.

Must get off short stories while I'm at it. The prize money would come in very handy. Will do it tomorrow. Might try and write one for another competition, which can be longer, so shouldn't be too difficult. I've got one story that is a touching family saga, along the theme of jealousy, and another about drug addiction. I'm hoping they'll go down well. They're for the Writer's Bureau competition, for £1000 first prize. Then I'm hoping to enter the Bridport prize, which is £5000, plus the top 13 get read by literary agents.

I've an idea for that, something I've already written that's kind of a portrait of grief. It'll need some work over the next few days, but then it'll do fine. I can only have a go, after all. Cool, I think I'll do that. Only a few days to enter though. Wish me luck.