Melbourne is hot. Not, just now, in the questionable faux-leather undergarment sense of hot; more in the armpit-squelch-inducing sense. Exhibit A: my armpits.
You'd think that coming from Sydney, practically on the Equator, to the 'Bourne, just a notch north of Antarctica, I'd be moving from swelter to freeze. Or, if not freeze, then some kind of sensible temperature, compatible with the wearing of clothes and the exercising of brain. Think again, geographers. It's all I can do not to prostrate myself under my desk, with a wet rag across my forehead, and a couple of nearby penguins agitating their wings in a cooling fashion.
The good news is that I managed my first ever Melburnean clothes wash last night, and a week's worth of shirts and pantaloons dried on the line in 2 hours flat. Hot.