Sunday 27th July 1808

Dear Diary,
Heat does not become me. I hate to perspire.
On some fellows a little free falling moisture is quite exciting but upon me, well, I fear I look, at best...feverish.
Seeing the Parson dripping upon his pulpit was not a welcome sight either. There was a constant flapping sound throughout the service as the congregation wafted their hymnals or other religious pamphlets, but it only served to circulate the warm air more. Rather more people nodded off during the sermon than usual but I am not convinced that was wholly due to the heat. Everyone sat there lifeless and listless and the singing was most half-hearted but during the final hymn, as Miss Lott hit a very low note and the Parson's Organ erupted with an alarming noise and ejaculated all over the first few pews. Feathers and straw and dead leaves rained down and poor Flora Bunder ended up with a dead wren upon her bonnet. It certainly livened up the service. Fanny laughed so much she had to leave for fear of involuntary micturation, and Chapel is no place for that.
Back at Thrushcock Grange, Ned was unearthing some Pentland Javelin. As I sat in the shade I tried to focus upon my book but was fascinated by more of that free falling moisture I mentioned earlier, particularly one stubborn droplet that clung to Ned's rosy nipple.
"You look like a weary dog with your tongue lolling out," he quiped.
I quickly dropped the book to my lap, lay back and closed my eyes and tried to envision an alternate image; one of a dead wren trapped between Mrs Norris's mountainous breasts, worked wonders.