Our displaced tropical weather continues to be something out of a Somerset Maugham story. I might as well be in Singapore. At least then I could put on one of those white suits and go to Raffles and drink G&T under a slowly turning ceiling fan, and maybe get involved in some sort of international intrigue, passing clandestine letters to the Governor General's Tahitian mistress in a curtained booth of a seedy waterfront bar, while the sinister First Mate of a tramp steamer eavesdropped on our hushed conversation, but was knocked unconscious by the piano player (who turns out to be a government agent) and shanghaied onto a Chinese junk bound for Java before he could report his findings to the German ambassador. Something like that. It would make the heat just a little bit easier to endure.
On the birght side, at least we're unlikely to have a typhoon in the Sierra Nevada. Just the occasional earthquake, or raging forest fire. Oh, summer be over!