After watching World War Z last weekend, I stepped out of the air-conditioned cinema into my very own post-apocalyptic desert of doom.
At least, that was what it felt like. As soon as the building's glass doors slid open, the broiling air outside closed in on me like the hot, damp breath of a fevered zombie. (In case you're wondering if zombies really breathe, the answer is yes. The Zombie Research Society says so.)
I ventured two steps out and felt my pores lose their feeble struggle to stay closed. Three more steps and the first pearls of perspiration pebbled forth.
In the five minutes it took me to walk to the road and hail a cab, I was sweating as much as Brad Pitt had been during the movie's zombie-filled climax.
"What, can't take a bit of heat?" I hear you snort. "I sweat every day just leaving the office for lunch."
But this was not your typical midday-under-the-tropical-sun scenario in Singapore. It was well past 3am in Tokyo, the sun had been down for eight hours but the concrete pavements were still seething with enough heat to cook a chawanmushi (steamed egg custard).
Even in the dark, the temperature was 30 deg C. It had risen to as much as 37 deg in the afternoon, and would do so again the next day.
Generally speaking, hot weather has never really bothered me, since I'm one of those freaks who are always freezing cold. In the office, I often wear a jacket over my cardigan over my dress, and shiver while holding my steaming cup of tea.