We've got this temperature doodad - I think Dad bought it on a whim or something - that shows indoor and outdoor temperature. The outdoor temperature is measured by a little plastic doodad that sends it to the bigger plastic doodad inside. Here's the little plastic doodad sitting on the edge of our big wooden table in the sun, where I put it this morning:
So I put it there and left it for a while. And when eventually I looked at the big plastic doodad inside, this is what it said:
That's 114.26 Fahrenheit. I hypothesise that the actual outdoor air temperature in rural southern Auckland is not actually 45.7 degrees, but that the little plastic doodad is measuring the temperature of the hot wooden table, which has been in the sun for a looooong time. Right now, the big plastic doodad says that the time is 2pm, the indoor temperature is 24.1 degrees and the table outside is 45.1. It's gone down, but still! 45.1!
And this is the sort of weather that makes my parents come inside and say "It's a beautiful day! Why aren't you outside?" I love lying in the sun and reading as much as anyone else, but I'd rather not get second-degree burns from the deck furniture. It's a shame. My brother took me to the library and I've got some thrilling books to read - foremost among them The Philosopher at the end of the Universe and The Medici Giraffe.