Scomo might not call it a climate emergency, but it's been an environmental challenge round our parts.

Heat's one thing, but the vapour in the air has taken it to the next level in the perspiration stakes.

The power of the mind can only go so far when separating fact from fiction, curd from whey, body from air-conditioner.

I've certainly bonded with my Fujitsu during the hot flushes.

Sticking it out, like a human cocunut slice on the lounge under the air-con, seeking some icing.

Makes you wonder what they did before reverse cycle.

Ooze and hiss any time anyone had to do something - like move. Granted we've had a bit of a reprieve this week.

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Floods have put out fires, filled dams, jeopardised pool parties.

To be fair, I'd rather a rained-out pool party than the ones I experienced during the tennis inside the house.

Under the arms, down the back, across the brow.

And yes, it is tense watching Kyrgios.

I bled with Fed and partied with Barty.

But no Djokovic, peeling myself off the lounge each night came with an audible slick and a palpable sense of dread.

Time to turn that air-con off.

A three-phase dilemma that started with the thought that maybe I could leave that air con on, all night.

Moving to the realisation that if I slept on the couch under the air con all night I would ruin my bank balance just as surely as my back - only more.

Leading to the conclusion that I had to kill that air con, have a shower and go flop it down, commando style on the Sheridans.

Talk about naked truth. TMI.

Even then you're still sweating, about the next electricity bill.

There is the theory that in practice I'm opposed to burning the fossil fuels that power air-cons linked to heat waves I'm try to escape.

That's why I leave the curtains open.

And the windows and the doors and anything else that might swing in a breeze, if only there was one.

Passive air-con at night in suburbia during summer can leave little to the imagination for unfortunate passsers-by and potential home invaders.

Every residential orifice open for business.

Things may be locked, they may not - I was too lethargic to check when I staggered off to bed.

Hopefully it's the same for robbers.

They'd want to be ready for a skinful, though.

Not that you're going to get any sleep under these fitful conditions.

Someone has to keep the bedside clock company.

Nights like these it's not uncommon to wonder the house like Goldilocks, looking for a bed that's just right.

Just right under a fan preferably.

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