The météo tells me it's thirty-eight degrees celsius (100F), but the car thermometer stubbornly stays over forty (104F) on the drive into town. Thank heavens for air conditioning.
I hunt for shade to park the car at Leclercs and the hot strong wind from the north west hits me as I get out. By the time I reach the welcoming cool draught through the supermarket doors my damp hair is sticking to my forehead.
I linger over the freezer cabinets and wrap the ice cream inside three layers of cool bag. The aisles are full of autumn clothing and reminders to sweep your chimney before winter.
The papers tell us we have the highest level of water restrictions - no use of hoses to fill pools or water the plants, not even from one's own well. As I drive home I see the family that built a pond in their front garden in the spring busy filling it - with a hose.
Monsieur F has harvested some of his maize for silage: the green flow shoots from the funnel above the harvester into the tractor-drawn wagon that crawls alongside. The maize that's left cracks and pops in the heat.
We hide indoors and close the shutters but there's nowhere now in the house that's cool except in front of the open fridge door.
Vita lies on the tiles at my feet, occasionally sighing. I'll go for a swim in a while and enjoy that brief moment as I drop in when the water feels almost cold.