I feel like one of those doomed figures writing their final diary entries as they forlornly await rescue after shipwreck, or hopelessly try to return to safety from some tragically misjudged polar expedition . . .
But anyway, here we are around 9:30 in the morn of August 6th, south coast of Ireland. The temperatures are relentless. The sky as you see, though not without wisps of protective clouds, is mostly clear so we are nigh on naked beneath the destructive rays of the remorseless sun.
We are rapidly losing hope. Breathing is difficult, the air oppressive. There is a air of despair and lethargy amongst the population. No one needs to say how we feel. Our dead eyes speak all too clearly of our situation. Perhaps we will see out another day. Perhaps not. That this nightmare may somehow pass seems less and less likely with each awakening day.
As you see, besides everything else we have a yellow warning for potato blight - as if things were not already too dreadful for human imagining . . . though in truth there will probably soon be few of us left to eat any potatoes . . . for we, at 9:26am, have already attained an almost unimaginable 15 degrees Celsius (59 Fahrenheit). Not yet 10am and already 15 degrees . . .
This may be my final missive.
edit: 11:20 am. Our worst imaginings are being realised. Two hours later, and the temperatures have continued to climb. Sixteen degrees.
Potato blight is still a threat.
