Overheating

The air conditioning has packed up in our apartment. I got home tonight to find the cat looking confused and upset, draped over the sofa. She followed me around the apartment, flopping down on the floor and mewing piteously, which was upsetting, because that was what I wanted to do.

It felt like an eternity since I last performed at the comedy club, but it was less than two weeks ago. Thursday nights are hardly ever packed out, but tonight there was an audience of three people. Maybe the heat was the problem, or maybe everyone's gone away for the summer. If they disliked the heat, they'd made the wrong decision: as ever, the club is glacially cold, which would have been welcome if I hadn't got sweaty walking up the hill from the MTR.

How disgusting, you might think, for the audience to have to watch a sweaty man declaiming jokes on stage. Fortunate, then, that there were so few of them. And with one being a German, fresh off the plane, intricate wordplay and local references were a non-starter.

Still, that's another gig under my belt: from two huge audiences to one tiny one. What made me very sad was that I'd planned to go to Brat for a valedictory sausage afterwards, but, persuaded by the comedians to have a drink first, we only got to Brat after the kitchen had closed. So no special sausage for me: instead, it was home in a taxi and a huff.

Tomorrow I'm off to see a notary about our wedding application. Or rather, I'm paying a bloke 2,000 dollars to stamp his inprimatur on a piece of paper he's utterly disinterested in. I wonder what he'll be like.