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This point of the entry is crucial. There is a mathematical equation to explain the vital importance of quick action at this time. It is T=a(w)*h / S(w/3) + sR; where T= Time of Survival, a = Average heat for the day, w = the number of windows in the car, h = hours in the sun, S = speed of opening, sR= Sunroof. You might think that the sunroof should be included as one of the windows but once, and if, you manage to get the key in the ignition and start moving, an open sunroof will provide at least three times as much cooling wind rush, or CWR, as any window. I have frequently come close to passing out at this point, leaving my dehydrated and handsome corpse for some local fisherman to find a week later and then use as bait.

So far, so good. Due to the appalling state of health of my short-term memory and my unbearable thirst, I normally forget the sting in the tale. The heat of the car is finally just bearable, you’ve started the engine and are now in a great rush to get some godforsaken airflow into the proximity of yourself. You check your mirrors in anticipation of a rapid pullaway and your foot hits the accelerator with such an alacrity that means you will be doing 30 mph in the next three seconds. And then you place your hands on the wheel to steer. At first there is no problem and you are debating exactly which lager you are going to murder the dryness in the back of your throat with. I imagine it is akin to when you are stabbed by a very sharp knifeblade or shiv, apparently you feel nothing at first and only start becoming concerned when the pain kicks in moments later. I have never had that pleasure but I have had my palms melt on the plastic overlay of a steering wheel. When that information arrives at your cerebellum, the effect is excruciating. Thoughts stampede through your mind as if fleeing a raging forest fire.

“Pub, cold, beer, umm, motherfuckaAAAAAA, hot, hands, melting, pain, aroma, barbecue, pain, never be the same again, cannot move my hands, doing thirty, lorry coming, can’t turn, shit.”

Well, admittedly I have exaggerated a little, but you get the idea.


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"No, don't tell me. I can read your mind!"  
Dr Roger, possibly thinking ,"That's the last of my kids married off. Thank the Lord."