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Eighty-three degrees is not very hot in the grand scheme of things. It's downright pleasant, in fact.
Unless you're trying to sleep and the humidity's at ninety percent with a breeze that wouldn't stir a gnat's eyelash. That's when eighty-three degress becomes slightly less pleasant.
We've gotten friendly with the fan.
The only bummer is the fact that humidity and heat clash mightily with my fiber fetish. Silk and wool exhibit "failure to draft" at times like this, and my knitting felts magically in my fingers. The good news is, I have an active imagination.
First, we'll visualise the perfect perch. Not a fish, but a seat. The back is tilted just so, the seat has just the right amount of incline, and my legs stretch out before me with my preferred amount of support. It is also padded. Cotton, not vinyl. With stripes.
Next to this chair is a small table. It's made of wood, to match the frame of the chair, and has a circular inset of stone. Probably slate or something like that. I can set my drink there, a tall glass of real lemonade, without leaving those nasty white rings on the surface. There's also a bowl of fruit. Not just apples, but a whole array of tasty things, cut into chunks and skewered on little sticks. I'd like chocolate, but it's hot, remember? The skewered fruit provides mess-free dining. Strawberry juice on the hands does not go well with light-colored knitting of any sort.
Oh, and there's a vase of flowers, too. Lilacs, privet, and peonies. These are framed nicely by the picture window, which is the backdrop of this whole shebang.
Now, the purpose of the setup: the knitting. It's too warm for wool, and cotton is too stiff for my taste. No, today I have a silk/linen blend. It's been washed, so the linen fibers have softened up. There's just enough silk to keep everything cool and drapey, but not enough to let the yarn snag on my hands.
Everything is almost perfect. What's missing? Ah, here he comes with a book in his little hands.
Why sure, kiddo. I'll wead to you. I can knit tomorrow.