I feel vaguely ill all day in this heat, my ankles burning, and the collar of my madras cotton shirt heavy as a yoke as I sit here, unable to dream.

Four full days now it has crouched over us, the humidity like the exhalation of tigers, scratch of tough leather across the piss damp concrete. And yet everything is at a remove. Each morning I wake, my ears filled from the draining sinuses, all the world in rut and the pollen everywhere, so thick we sweep it up into shovels like useless grain.

< I may be allergic to walnut pollen > Wert says, as we sit detached by the restaurant air conditioning, thinking of what to say.