Babcock.... The physical manifestion of El Niño

BABCOCK: THE MANIFESTATION OF EL NIÑO

— A dispatch from the unfortunate gentleman.

Babcock...

The very manifestation of El Niño.

Fawk. 🤧

As a gentleman of rather distinguished English sensibilities, I must confess that I find it unnecessarily difficult to function under such barbaric atmospheric conditions.

And by barbaric, I mean heat.

Insufferable, merciless, borderline criminal heat.

Of all the places on God's rather unfortunate little planet, I cannot imagine another institution that justifies the existence of excessive temperatures quite as enthusiastically as Babcock University.

Honestly, what exactly do WE, in AFRICA, need this much heat for?

I beg your pardon, but what is the objective?

Are we attempting to manufacture sunlight? Are we conducting some elaborate experiment in human dehydration? Has the sun developed a personal vendetta against this particular geographical location?

And, for heaven's sake, does a dark-skinned beauty genuinely require additional tanning?

What exactly are we trying to achieve here?

Temperatures approaching 41°C!

FORTY-ONE.

At this point, we aren't living in a tropical climate. We're living inside naturally fabricated ovens, with absolutely no ventilation and questionable prospects of survival.

One might argue that the situation is a consequence of global warming, poor environmental management, or perhaps some particularly unfortunate atmospheric phenomenon.

Others, however, have suggested that the country's rather questionable economic management contributes to the general feeling of being cooked alive.

Well...

I wouldn't know much about that.

I simply don't wish to watch another World Cup under the current administration.

If you understand what I mean. 🫩

Anyway, I digress.

The weather around these parts has become so outrageously hot that we've practically adopted El Niño as our personal meteorological vocabulary.

A rather charming Spanish expression, if I may say so.

Although I suspect its meaning has been severely underestimated by anyone who hasn't had the privilege of experiencing Babcock at midday.

Here, the sun doesn't merely shine.

It interrogates.

It follows you around like a disgruntled tax collector, demanding every last drop of moisture your body has ever possessed.

And yet...

In what can only be described as a spectacular betrayal of natural law, I have somehow managed to catch a cold.

A sore throat, too.

And a slight fever.

In THIS weather.

THIS particular weather!

I am surrounded by enough heat to roast an entire civilisation, and somehow my immune system has decided to organise a private winter.

Marvelous.

Absolutely marvellous.

But perhaps the greatest mystery of all is my laundry.

I have, on several occasions, surrendered my clothing to the mercy of the afternoon sun, spreading everything outside with the reasonable expectation that such an aggressive celestial body would accomplish the task within minutes.

Twelve hours.

TWELVE BLOODY HOURS.

And what do I get?

Slightly dry clothes.

SLIGHTLY.

What manner of atmospheric sorcery is this?

The sun is practically attempting to liquefy my skeleton, yet my trousers remain emotionally attached to their moisture.

I simply cannot comprehend it.

At this point, I have several questions for the universe, none of which I expect to receive satisfactory answers to.

Perhaps the clouds are on strike.

Perhaps the sun is working overtime.

Perhaps Babcock has been constructed directly above an ancient furnace.