I think somebody broke the temperature control knob on the sun this week. We’re into day three of temperatures that I can only describe as “hotter than balls”. It’s a strange description, isn’t it – and yet one that people commonly use.
Rather than the origin of “hotter than balls” being at all sexual, I suspect it’s a corollary of “cold enough to freeze a brass monkey’s balls off” – a reference to cannons and cannon balls that dates back to the Napoleonic wars.
I’m writing this during five minutes break from work. Spotify is playing Wilson Phillips at the moment – part of some kind of happy summer playlist. I was at college when Wilson Phillips first arrived – I bought several of their albums.
I used to have quite the music collection. Somewhere around here there are some photos of my apartment, and the towering CD racks that dominated the living room. We sold all of our CDs a few years ago – the last vestige we have of “owning” music is a motley collection of vinyl albums – mostly owned by my other half before we met. At Christmas or on birthdays I buy her another album – which causes endless derision from the kids.
Christopher Cross is singing now. He reminds me of an old friend – and nights spent walking through Frankfurt after work, listening to music together across the vast reaches of the internet – sharing playlists – curating thoughts and dreams.
Isn’t it amazing how music connects with memories. I remember walking through the Christmas market in Frankfurt like it was yesterday. I wonder if I’ll ever travel with work again – I haven’t so much as got on a train let alone a plane for work since the pandemic happened. My world throughout the week is the junk room at home.