Tonight Ellen keeps asking me if I'm dead.
I suppose she could be forgiven for thinking I might be, because it's so HOT that all I can do is languish pathetically on the 'cool' timber floor.
But the lack of concern in her voice is disconcerting. Would she care if I was dead? I like to think she would.
Anyway, I'm not dead. Just Hot. And a little delirious. Obviously.