It's that time of the year again when the title of one of Ruth Prawer Jhabwalla's books, Heat & Dust, comes to mind. And when I glare meaningfully at the sky, willing it to reveal at least a few pregnant grey clouds. When I wistfully recall gusts of fresh perfumed breeze that enthusiastically accompany a rainfall, and fantacise wildly about raindrops lightly moisturising my parched face as I sleep. When the boom of thunder and the crackle of lightning is the only music I yearn to hear. And I wish, really wish, I could remember which irresponsible idiot borrowed my copy of Alexander Frater's Chasing the Monsoon about 14 years ago, so I can get it back!
Oh God, why can't it bloody start raining now!!!!? I can't take this anymore!