Air conditioning is bad. It devours electricity like Augustus Gloop would an all-you-can-eat buffet and is helping turn this planet into some kind of giant sultana. Short of concreting a national park or strapping gelignite to penguins, it’s possibly the worst thing you can do for the environment. It’s for this reason we have decided not to have air conditioning in our home. While we often suffer a shortage of cool air, we have, instead, a near endless supply of an air of superiority, of which we make splendid use.
Air conditioning is bad. It devours electricity like Augustus Gloop would an all-you-can-eat buffet and is helping turn this planet into some kind of giant sultana. Short of concreting a national park or strapping gelignite to penguins, it’s possibly the worst thing you can do for the environment. It’s for this reason we have decided not to have air conditioning in our home. While we often suffer a shortage of cool air, we have, instead, a near endless supply of an air of superiority, of which we make splendid use.
Our decision to forsake the benefits of air conditioning is one I wholly support. Or, at least, one I support most of the time. But after a few days of hot weather, I am pretty much ready to abandon my principles like a cruise-liner captain would his up-turned vessel if it means I can have a decent night’s sleep. Frankly, at this moment I would gladly cut a hole in the ozone with a plastic fork or mow down the entire Amazon in exchange for a little shut-eye.
I love Autumn. It is, I think, my favourite season of all, with the possible exception of season seven of ‘The West Wing’. I love the way the leaves begin to rust before tumbling to the ground, the chill of the morning air and how the weather invites you to stay indoors and pick up a book. But this year Autumn’s performance has been far from ideal. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that Autumn is letting itself and everybody else down by not being nearly Autumn enough. By now, I should have been able to break out the turtleneck a couple of times and my umbrella should have sipped the seasonal rains on countless occasions. Not this year. Instead, we’re suffering through an Indian summer.
I’ve never really understood the expression ‘Indian summer’. Whether, much like the expressions ‘Chinese whispers’ or ‘Dutch oven’ such turns of phrase are generally considered inappropriate, I don’t know. I hope not. I suppose I can see how a term like ‘Chinese whispers’ might offend some people but, then again, George Michael’s ‘Carless Whispers’ is offensive too, although for different reasons. As best as I can make out, the expression ‘Indian summer’ refers to unseasonably warm weather in Autumn. Apparently, it’s a phrase that’s been in use for a couple of hundred years and refers to weather conditions that allowed American Indians to launch attacks on European settlements. Or, at least, that’s what the Internet tells me.
So far, March has been a massive disappointment. When weather forecasters started to claim that we’d be experiencing a week of temperatures above thirty degrees and that, at night, the degrees Celsius would remain way over twenty, I refused to believe my ears. Clearly, I thought, these forecasters are just trying to frighten us. But their terrifying prophesy of conditions that would be considered extreme even in some parts of hell proved all too accurate.
Our apartment is on the first floor and made of brick. This means that it remains cool for a day or two of hot weather. But then, much the like the aforementioned Dutch oven, it absorbs heat like a sponge and nothing short of an exorcist will get it out. By day three of the heat wave, I had resorted to using cool washcloths in the hope of cooling down. By day four, I started placing items of clothing in the freezer. By day five, my sanity was threatening to slip through my very sweaty fingers. Suddenly, working really long hours seemed to be a great idea, because no one questions air conditioning in an office environment. I would arrive at work to be immediately bathed in cool, cool air. It was then that I began to form a plan to set up a small bed under my desk, much as George Costanza had once done on Seinfeld.
By day six, I had prepared a list of companies that will install air conditioning at short notice. I feel the environment has betrayed me and it is time to extract some measure of sweet revenge. I care little if it means that near-extinct plant species will now tumble into the history books or delicate ecosystems vanish like a Magician’s rabbit. I have been pushed too far and am willing to put my principles, along with myself, in the deep freeze. Farewell arctic shelf, hello temperature control. I’m sure I’ll feel different in a day or two, but right now, I have been driven to madness – not in a hybrid eco-friendly vehicle but an old-style petrol-guzzling clunker that spews pollution into the atmosphere like a chain smoker.
So for those of you who have weakened and succumbed to the temptations of air conditioning, let me say this: a pox on your beautiful, comfortable, climate controlled houses, where a good night’s sleep is more than just a dream that you can’t have because you’re unable to enter anything resembling slumber but a gorgeous, chilled reality. Obviously, I despise the choice you’ve made. And I reserve the right to look down the length of my extremely sweaty nose at you in contempt at your frailty. That said, clear out the spare room; because if this heat returns, I’m planning to turn up to your house, night bag in hand, planning to stay a while.