The flat-as-an-office theory towards nothing

It apparently feels like minus one Celsius outside, on Christmas Day in London, but it got to a balmy twenty-three inside my studio apartment. So, I cracked open the window for a moment for some respite.

I can’t help but marvel at how modern construction methods and insulating materials contain warmth with minimal heating; without their interplay, my plants wouldn’t last beyond a couple days. Their presence softens up a space and their infrequent care is a reminder that an urban brute can be civilised.

But the same engineering that protects against the winter makes the summer intolerable, even if my plants might beg to differ, as the extended summer sun radiates heat via the windows of my bedroom and balcony, both of which hold a fixed gaze south/southeast-wards into the city.