Up the mercury thingamajig, that is.
It's so hot in Paris right now that even the inside of my flip-flops is hot.
Whoa. I was going to write "the inside of my thongs" and realized in the nick of time just how horribly wrong that whole thing could have gone.
I kid you not, though. My flip-flops are hot. And walking bare foot is not an option, even though part of the floor is tiles, because I'm slightly afraid I'll catch bilharziasis. Yes, my floor is dirty as Harry before he told a punk to go ahead, make his day, and redeemed himself forever. (Or after he did? I don't know. It's too hot.) And let's be frank here, I'm not going to risk a heat stroke by those temperatures by cleaning and wasting precious energy. Even though a close encounter of the fireman kind might do wonders for my social life - which is not a given considering the hygienic standards I've set here - the rise in temperature that would ineluctably follow my meeting a fireman would probably kill me. Which would, in fact, ruin any wonders that my social life might have briefly enjoyed. I hope you understood that particular sentence, because I'm not seeing the end of my thought process, and I'm not sure I could explain.
All kidding aside, life is hard here, I hope you realize that. So hard in fact, that I'm thinking of switching my entire diet (understand that to mean my feeding habit, not my starving myself in order to become more presentable. I've entirely given up on that.) to diet soda (OK, not entirely), ice-cream (told you) and ice cold melons and cantaloupes (just because when they're really really ripe, they're like healthy candy).
I haven't got air-con, I haven't got a fan, I haven't got a muscular man to fan me non-stop with a freshly cut banana leaf, and my freezer cannot make enough ice cubes for me to wait for fall in my bathtub. I'm screwed.