The Great British Meltdown: A Creative Brain on Strike

The British sun has staged a coup, and my brain has officially gone on strike. It is spectacular, really, how a bit of June sunshine (a temperature completely unsuited to anyone born in Canada) can reduce a functioning human into a puddle of pure, unadulterated apathy. Classic summer move.

I am currently slumping around the flat like a particularly tragic, sun-baked walrus. My creative juices? Evaporated. Bone dry. The only profound thought remaining in my melting skull is a rhythmic, Neanderthal loop: Man, it’s hot.

I attempted to fight back with a glorious Rocket Lolly; a culinary milestone, truly, but it suffered a total structural collapse within seconds, weeping sticky, neon-coloured tears onto my shirt. Unforgivably. Even the desk fan has given up, wheezing a lukewarm sigh every few seconds, clearly resenting its employment.

I tried to look sophisticated whilst staring out the window, channeling my inner flâneur, but I entirely lack the basic biological skills required to sweat elegantly. Instead, I am just a beautifully confused creature, desperately seeking asylum in front of the open freezer. I might just move in next to the frozen peas permanently. Coldly.