I am a 28 year old man. I just got off the night shift in a factory. I am one year older.

This is what getting older feels like. Cold, lonely, with the tree line just in sight.

Every year that I’ve had this blog I’ve put together some sort of lessons learned compilation. Things to take away from the year gone and past, celebrating whatever life lesson I came to understand, even if it is something I should have learned well before I could drive, buy porn and vote.

On april 11th 2011, at the age of 26 years old, I stated “Never have surgery in a foreign country, especially not on your ass in South Korea”. That is some bold, mysterious and disturbing philosophizing by my predecessor. To this day I stand by it, as it may be the truest thing I have or ever will say. My contribution to humanity. But to put your, our, my name on it, publish it on the sopping tabloid that is the internet and then wonder why I work nights in a factory is an unfortunate comment about my perception of how I am be perceived.

A man made of metal said it better than I ever could, “If I only had a brain.”

Before I get to the list, and I will of course get to the list, I got a bone to pick with a guy named Dave. He and I attended public school and high school together, although only during the former can I say we were close friends. Dave was a nice guy who was really good at Super Mario 64.

He possessed the sort of smile you would welcome into your home to sharpen your kitchen knives. I was very good at French, but less so at Mario, especially when it came time to fight Bowser. Dave was not very good at French. As you might have already surmised, our complimentary skill sets complemented well.

So there was a time when Dave and I began the intellectual exchange we call friendship. I liked Dave.

Fast forward to today, or two weeks ago to be more specific. A friend of mine, Ryan, bumps into Dave. The subject of my employment comes up in conversation. Dave was not pleased or proud with the progress I had made in this cruel world and professed such. Enthusiastically.

Dave said he thought I would be a poet. I was confused to hear that Dave’s idea of the epitomy of life’s ziggurat is… poet. And I suppose he was not far off on the want and desire to play with words. I’m just not much for rhyming and I don’t feel the need to wear a beret or grow a goatee, too old for those games now old chum.

By the power of greyskull, did dear Dave ever cast judgement unto my life. Bewildered describes my state. Did Dave and I not bond over videogames and foreign languages?

Nik from two years ago might have been upset by the retelling of this social judgement. Now, with my current level of enlightenment, I can see there is but one difference between Dave and I. The difference being simple: Over the last decade I haven’t thought for one second what I thought Dave would be doing. Let’s just say I was too busy.

So Dave, I wrote you a poem, and I hope it lives up to all of your wildest poetic dreams for me.

Dave is a prick.

I was never very good at writing poetry.

Onto the list of lessons. This year they are simple, few and hopefully truths that will sculpt your life. In no particular order…

Shit I Learned When I Was 27:

1. Getting evicted is ok, so long as you are not the crackhead responsible for the eviction.

2. Throwing a coffee table does not settle an argument.

3. Do not by a car that, under any circumstances and regardless of impossibly low price, has an aftermarket speaker set installed using a mix of wood and drywall screws.

4. When you yell from a balcony, “The (insert season) of (insert name)!!!” ie, “The summer of Nik!!!”, you are dooming yourself.

5. Raccoons don’t like jalapeno peppers.

6. Avoid living in rooms you can’t stand up straight in.

7. Avoid owning nice stuff. It won’t stay nice when you get evicted.

8. Don’t take shit from Dave.

9. It’s now considered ‘therapeutic’ not pathetic to vent frustrations, both viciously and anonymously, against any human or corporate entity from the safety of the internet.

10. Don’t go back and read anything you’ve written that is older than a year… and that you maybe set free onto the internet.

11. The Netipot is the vilest of humanity’s creations.

That’s it, talk next year.

Niky

I moved, again. In the last two years I have done a considerable amount of lateral shifts in terms of living accommodations, but I have finally made a long overdue social leap forward. My new apartment is a penthouse at Prince Charles Terrace. Breathe it in. I am.

The new place is swell. You need a special key to use the elevator to get up to ‘My Level’, which adds a sense of elitism I am unaccustomed to but quickly growing fond of. There are two decks; both of which are bigger than my first apartment. And my room came with a sword, which, based on my penthouse experience, is a penthouse tradition.

Jealous?

This blessing has been taken from the bosom of craigslist, and isn’t she just a bountiful bitch. If craigslist isn’t kissing, even gently, every part of your life then you’re doing something wrong.

This blog isn’t about my awesome apartment – and awesome it is, it’s about the f@#$ing parking ticket I got my first night in the underground parking.

Underground parking is supposed to be a safe haven for cars, free from bird shit and tickets, where subterranean differences are handled in private without involving the law man, much like Fight Club. After parking in the wrong spot for only a few hours I was left with this note along with one city of Toronto parking ticket.

Warming? WARMIMG!?

I can endure the parking ticket. Last year alone I collected over $700 worth of these yellow book marks, most of which I fought like Robin Hood, except I have no merry men, nor am I merry and I give nothing back to the people – except this blog, which could be argued is more of a burden on the internet than anything. But what I can’t bare is this asshole leaving a passive aggressive  note on my car so riddled with poor penmanship.

WARNING is spelt with two n’s not two m’s. In fact every n in the letter looks like an m. So either this person has terrible handwriting; is an idiot (I wager on this); or has a bizarre speech impediment and spells everything phonetically. If I hadn’t just bought the car I would sell it, or at the very least replace the windshield that has been soiled with this love letter.

Go back and read the note, please. Get angry. I would retype every line and follow it up with a long list of expletives, but I have to go to work soon and I’m willing to wager you don’t want or need to read that.

What does a man do when he has been wronged? It used to be you would shout from the highest bell tower. Name and shame. Bell towers being in short supply this option isn’t practical, instead I will scream from the largest metaphorical tower in the land, the internet.

F@#$ you guy who parks beside me. I hope when you do your taxes this year you get audited.

PS. I finally saw the car owned by the man responsible to this affront. It is a suped up Volkswagen with level 9 douchebag window tinting. I predict that he owns the box set collectors edition of all the Fast and Furious movies. If that isn’t justice I don’t know what is.

My apartment has no heat and I don’t know why. That’s a lie, I do know why; no one has turned it on. What I don’t understand is why they haven’t turned it on. The only thing I am certain of is that it’s cold. I am also cold. Someone commented that my situation is like camping, unfortunately, this isn’t a weekend excursion, this is my life. What I save in utilities, I lose in lifespan.

In our universe we don’t have control of the thermostat or our survival. It has been decided this power should not be placed in our hands. Instead it is left to the vintage store beneath us, and either they don’t mind the arctic conditions or they’re trying to better preserve the garbage they attach price tags to.

Life on the ice planet Hoth (Star Wars reference) poses some challenges to comfortable living.
Here are five things I hate doing now that I can store raw meat in my bedroom.

by Nikolai Paterak

by Nikolai Paterak

by Nikolai Paterak

by Nikolai Paterak

by Nikolai Paterak

As you might have guessed from the title, I consider there to be three versions of Nik: past, present and future. And when I make decisions I take these three versions of myself into consideration. Allow me to explain.

Present Nik

When present Nik does something that future Nik will appreciate, such as shopping for groceries or doing laundry, then I know future Nik – who will become present Nik – will thank past Nik who is right now present Nik.

However, despite the gratitude future Nik may show present and past Nik, more often than not it is the laziness of past and present Nik that annoys future Nik. Past Nik has royally screwed over future Nik by delaying or foregoing on car tune-ups, laundry, shopping, sleep, bills, cleaning, bike repair, alarm setting and so forth. Past Nik does very little to assist future Nik. Future Nik is often frustrated by this.

Things are looking up for future Nik!

Present Nik has recently come to a realization, considering different temporal versions of myself is not entirely normal. Past Niks have been practicing this reasoning methodology for some time, but have never considered that future Niks might stray from the course thus banishing past Nik into the…past. A scary thought for past Nik.

The real question then is where does this leave present Nik? Present Nik is left in the present for the time being, but should present Nik and future Nik continue with this practice? Present Nik thinks yes and tends to think that future Nik will agree. If at all possible, past Nik would be very happy to read this.

I like to think past past Niks had long hair.

Here are present Nik’s three reasons why he will maintain the three versions of the self:

1. It allows me to blame someone other than present Nik for past mistakes.
2. Past Nik likes taking the credit for future Nik’s successes, as rare as they are.
3. I get to say great things like, “Future Nik will not be pleased about this…”, or “I blame past Nik for this” and then I get to enjoy the confusion of those around me.

Present Nik is done with this blog, and he is also very happy with the infographic he has delicately crafted. I forgot to mention that I, present Nik, have decided to populate this blog with poorly drawn artwork rather than poorly taken pictures.

Present Nik hopes future Nik will make the time to post this though… (Future Nik did)

Over the past few weeks this blog has not been getting a lot of contributions, and I say that as though there are many people writing for this, when as you know, it’s only me. I wash and dry. And for the two people who read my blog – which is a 100% increase in readership – they might have asked, “Why haven’t I seen anything polluting my Facebook feed about that blog I read once and accidentally subscribed to?” The two words answer is this, Night, Shift.

I work nights. And I won’t say where because the cardinal rule of the web is that you never mention where you work, good or bad things to say. If one breaks this rule the overlords of the internet, cats, will strike you down with their feline fury. I will say this about my job though, I do genuinely like it.

The night shift does take some getting use to though. For instance I don’t have dinner anymore, or not as I used to understand dinner. I usually just have a stack of peanut butter and jam sandwiches at eight in the evening. It’s like being in public school at night, but some of the kids have beards.

There are of course other lifestyle adjustments but I can’t recall them at this time, also I’m in a rush because I’m cooking chicken.

That’s correct, I’m cooking chicken. It’s one day away from expiring. And let me say that the expiration prediction model is something I find incredible. Scientists, or I assume they are, can predict the expiration of already dead chicken but not the expiration of very much alive people. I digress. I’m cooking dead chicken at the end of it’s life cycle and it is exactly 10:59 AM.

Cooking meat this early on a weekend isn’t natural. But neither is the night shift.

My finest word combinations are not birthed in the morning, but this is the only time I have to write and cook meat. When life hands you lemons, you get used to eating raw lemons until the enamel is eroded off your teeth. Then you get dentures that are much nicer and whiter than your original teeth.

Life ain’t so bad.

I hate going to the dentist, but that doesn’t make me unique or original. There are very few people who don’t hate the dentist. I would hazard a guess that there are more people who enjoy watching videos of people squishing cantaloupe with their feet than like going to the dentist. This is a guess based on nothing aside from the fact that melons don’t shove metal tools inside your skull digging for the skeletons of meals past.

This is not my dentist.

It baffles me that I pay someone to shove medieval looking hooks in my mouth, hurt me, then give me a guilt trip that’s reminiscent of the  “I’m not mad, I’m just dissappointed”, my parents used to lay down on me – more than a few times I might add.

But I do pay that person to perform their trade on my mouth, not as often as I should – which they are all happy to remind me about – but it’s a recession right?.

The other morning at the dentist while I was having the saliva vacuumed out of my mouth like a tranquilized polar bear, I started thinking about things I would do to avoid the dentist temporarily or even permanently.

In no particular order…

Ten things I would rather do then go to the dentist!

1. Taxes

I would rather do taxes than go to the dentist. Alright, so I don’t know how to do my taxes, which makes me 18% less of an adult, but I would prefer to shell out the cash for someone to do them for me rather than pay for torture in a sterile environment.

2. Pay Bills

I actually paid my bills before my dentist appointment this morning as a way of procrastinating.

3. Eat that poisonous blowfish from China.

I don’t know how many people die from this dish, whatever it’s actually called, but it can’t be that many. Do you know how many people suffer at the dentist though? All of them.

4. Dig a gigantic hole in the ground.

Remember how I dug that gigantic hole earlier this year? Well if I was given the choice between digging that giant’s grave again or having someone make me feel bad about how often I don’t floss, guess which one I would choose?

5. Have surgery on my ass in Korea…again.

Alright, so I actually did have surgery on my bum in South Korea, NOT North Korea, just to be clear. And I would do it all again, epidural needle and all, if it meant I would never have to go to the dentist again.

6. Read the entire Twilight series and enjoy it.

I have nothing against Stephenie Meyers and her work. She is obviously smarter than I am. The twilight guru isn’t exactly an unpaid unpublished blogger – like you know who. To be clear, I personally just don’t like the books or their subject matter. But OMG would I ever if it meant no more Mrs. Paid Sadomasochist Dental Hygienist. I would even sweeten the deal with a lower back Robert Pattison tattoo – or maybe he’s had a rough enough time as it is.

7. Get rejected by an endless sea of women.

This is already happening and I still have to go to the dentist. Reality bites.

8. Never have Ketchup again.

I've already cut my ketchup intake down...

Allow me to be clear, I love ketchup. I don’t put it on everything and use it as a hair gel, but I do enjoy putting it on ketchup appropriate food such as Kraft Dinner, scrambled eggs and grilled chezzze from Zellers. I would never even look at the stuff if it meant I didn’t have to rinse with that icky fluoride mouthwash again. Yuck.

9. Every time I see a chalkboard I would scratch my nails on it.

I hate this sound, but I hate the dentist much more. Also, not being in school anymore, I figure as far as my day-to-day routine is concerned I don’t pass many chalkboards anymore.

10. I would shut down this blog.

You got me, I wouldn’t shut down this blog, even if it meant no more trips to the dentist. Number 10 on the list was meant to alarm you and hopefully drum up some minor emotion about how you might miss the time we have spent together. I hope that emotion you felt was not relief.

Despite the very real nature of this list, I foresee at least three more trips to the dentist in my lifetime. Which in all likelihood means three more blog posts about going to the dentist, provided the internet isn’t over by the time I turn 50.

Some people look forward to retirement. I look forward to dentures.

Where I last left you on my quest to see a live episode of Saturday Night I was sleeping, or trying to sleep, on a sidewalk. On that sidewalk I made a discovery.

People made themselves right at home.

Do you know why homeless people are grumpy? It’s because they sleep on the sidewalk, and there’s no such thing as a good night’s sleep on a sidewalk. If there was only one lesson to be learned from my excursion to NYC it would be that. This revelation doesn’t mean I’m going to offer my bed to the next homeless person I see. That would be both unsafe and less than practical; I would have to wash my sheets more often than scheduled. But now, if nothing else, I can empathize as well as sympathize with their situation.

That all being said, I did get some sleep that night, and I must emphasize the brevity of this sleep. This sleep was only had after Will Ferrell drove past in a black SUV. If people in our line could trade one of their digits for his autograph there would be a lot of people counting to nine – or lower depending on their level of celebrity enthusiasm.

Fortunately there was a light at the end of the dirty paved tunnel. At 7:00 that morning we would get our standby tickets for the show. 

In order to better appreciate the decision Liam and I were left with I will briefly explain the SNL standby ticket distribution policy.

Saturday Night Live rules!

At the seventh hour of the sixth day, those who have proudly stayed the course are given numbered standby tickets to that night’s show. BUT, and I must emphasize the largeness of this caveat, you, the recipient of this ticket, must choose whether you would like a ticket to see the live show, which quite obviously is the one you and I struggle to stay awake for most Saturday nights, or you can get a ticket to the dress rehearsal that happens earlier in the evening. There are no guarantees for either, and after talking to some seasoned veterans – experts at waiting in line that is – there was no real strategy to be had. You pick and stick.

Having come this far, Liam and I took the ‘Go big or go home’ philosophy and went for the live show. Our ticket numbers were 25 and 26. We were told – by ‘experts’ – this wasn’t a terrible position to be in, that here was hope. The two hundred people behind us on the other hand, were, for a lack of a better word, fucked.

This is 'nature' in the big apple.

So pleased with ourselves and now unshackled from our concrete tether we fled to Central Park to sleep more, or sleep at all. We had our tickets, we did not have our Canada Flag chairs. In the thrill of the moment we had left our chairs on the sidewalk we called home. By the time we realized our mistake we were too tired, weak and far away to get our Canada flag upholstered chairs. I assumed a nice homeless couple would use them to masquerade as stranded Canadians. A Canada flag chair is as good as a passport at the border. We were wrong, but not about the chair passport thing.

In Central Park Liam and I did our best to get more shut-eye. Despite being more comfortable than concrete, neither of us got any more sleep. On some days it feels like my body and brain are not working towards the same goal of survival. Sleepless in the park, I decided there really is no where in Manhattan for a man without a bed to get a decent nights sleep. This should not come as a surprise.

After visiting the cultural institutions of New York – FAO Schwartz and the Apple Store – it was time for lunch. And through the miracle of mobile phone technology and roaming charges costing 75 cents a text – which Bell was happy enough to remind me about – I had arranged with my cousin Erin to meet up for a picnic in the park.

All of my relatives live in America. As such I don’t see them very often, but some even more seldom than others. Erin held the title of the most distant relative. It had been around fifteen years since our last meeting. With this in mind there were a few possible problems with our picnic.

1. Erin might not recognize me
2. I might not recognize her
3. Erin might not like me
4. I might make one or both of her kids cry – which happens a lot, especially in South Korea
5. I might make her husband cry – which doesn’t happen often
6. And finally, the biggest problem of all (cause everybody likes me ) what if we just couldn’t find them in all the madness of the city?

We did find them, and we had a swell picnic in the very park we had just tried to sleep in – Central Park was becoming something of a lifeline for the trip.

Mike did show us a good spot to eat. Mike even hand delivered us on time to line up for SNL. I still like Mike.

Chairs, we meet again.

And it was while with Mike that the fate of our Canada folding chairs was discovered. As we approached the 30 Rockefeller there was no mistaking the two Canada flag chairs still right where we left them. There were a few problems with our discovery.

1. We couldn’t bring chairs into SNL
2. If we picked up the chairs people would know that it was us who left them behind.

I’m not proud of our decision but we left the chairs in their new home, the New York sidewalk.

Finally inside 30 Rockefeller we once more waited in line, but this time Mike was the latest addition to the ‘family’. As the clock counted down to 1130 – the start of the live taping of SNL –  it became clear, not many people were going to make it into the show. In fact, only nine people out of the two hundred or so did make it into the show. Liam and I were not one of those nine people. No one part of our group was either.

The show started without us. Our group didn’t have much time to mourn either, every tear wasted precious seconds of the SNL show we had risked everything to see. Two of the members of our posse, Niky and Tim, had a hotel room within sprinting distance of Rockefeller Plaza.  And so like any group of adults who had just slept on the streets of NYC waiting for tickets to Saturday Night Live and failed, we ran through the streets to go watch television in what was, essentially, a stranger’s hotel room. 

We left two chairs in New York City.

But before we could start the sprint we had a run in with our chairs one last time. Right outside the entrance were our chairs, but this time they were in a garbage can. We asked the custodian cleaning the sidewalk – a thankless job – if we could take a photo of the chairs. He asked us, “Are they your chairs?” To this I responded, “No, we’re Canadian and we just think this ironic.” I was impressed I had the capacity to still be clever.

Kodak moment behind us, the race through the streets and the blur of neon lights and jaywalking was the most fun I have ever had running. It felt like something out of a Zach Braff movie, but nobody got the girl at the end.

And so, in the hotel room of someone who we had just met the day before, we all huddled around the television as if it was the moon landing. It wasn’t the Live show we had come so far for, but something about that hour was even better. Maybe it was because I could get up to pee whenever I wanted.

The show ended but our smiles didn’t for some time, but even with the show over the day wasn’t done. There was still the race back to the Rockefeller Plaza to try to talk to cast members.

We waited and jockeyed for position behind the crowd control iron fences that had been the walls to our sidewalk bedrooms. There I met my soul mate, Will Forte.

Will – we’re on a first name basis – had been a cast member in past years and had come back for a guest appearance. I am a big fan of his work, particularly MacGruber

That's a new best friend smile.

Being a great guy, and my soon to be new best friend, Will came out eager to meet and greet his fans and satisfy their ravenous desire for autographs and photos. I was just like everyone else, frothing at the mouth.

I asked Will to sign my failure stub – my term for a never used ticket. He obliged. I asked Will if I could take a photo with him. Again, he obliged. Quietly, I asked him for a high-five. Oh, he obliged.

In addition to being hilarious, I discovered Will Forte is freakishly strong and has hands made of granite. After winding up with his entire body, Will performed a tornado manoeuvre that culminated with the skin nearly breaking from the impact on my hand. The sound barrier was broken, and Will went back to signing autographs. I squealed like a girl scout who had just sold the most cookies in her troupe when really her grandmother had bought them all.

In short, Will Forte nearly high-fived me into the hospital. And I say so proudly.

I moaned and groaned about the state of my hand. I then shouted to Will, “Hey man, I’m Canadian, I don’t have any health coverage down here!”

Will came over, and like a true gentlemen, confirmed that my hand was not in fact broken.

Will again went back to signing everything in sight, and someone in the ravenous crowd suggested Will and I patch things up over a cold drink, which would ice down my hand nicely. I tried to sweeten the deal, “I’m a warm hugger Will.” Will laughed… and then shuddered. We haven’t spoken since.

Liam, Mike and I left shortly thereafter. There was only one couch at Mike’s apartment, but it was a large L-shaped couch. No sacrifices of dignity or spooning was required.

After two hours of sound sleeping on a surface other than grass or concrete, the adventure to NYC was over, but the survival drive home was literally on the horizon. I can’t say with any degree of accuracy what the breakdown of my thoughts were for the drive, but I would venture to say 95% of my mental capacity and strength was dedicated to staying awake. Once and only once, I thought about sleeping, and lets just say, thank the pavement gods for the invention of the rumble strip.

Now you’re probably wondering how much, or more accurately, how little sleep I got on the trip. I’m proud to say between Thursday morning and Sunday night, a period of roughly ninety hours, I slept less than seven hours. Some people, actually a lot of people, said going to New York for just a weekend was a waste of time, but if you look at how long I was awake for I was actually in New York and conscious – to some degree – for nearly three and a half days. Good value if you ask me.

When I reflect on the entire saga I can appreciate how some people might chalk the entire SNL fail as a loss.  I would like to think I got something better out of the trip, and it wasn’t a good nights sleep or the autographs that I could sell on ebay or two blog posts.

Toronto is in the midst of heat wave. If you haven’t noticed then there’s a good chance you’ve been living in a cave, and most of the GTA is envious of your accommodations. With the beginning of summer and the heat wave, so begins the Canadian obsession with the almighty Humidex. Unfortunately, I have some bad news for you Toronto: People that live in really hot countries don’t complain about the Humidex. Sorry to burst your bubble.

Cambodia, notice the local not complaining or suffering.

When I was in Cambodia, do you know what locals did on a really hot day? Sold more Fanta. In Australia while the temperatures were capping forty-five degrees celsius – no humidex – do you know what they did? What they normally did, just sweatier. Canada on the other hand has an institutionalized whiny weather attitude.

The past fourteen months is the first full year I have lived in Canada since 2006-2007, and if I have learned anything from my time abroad and my time at home, it’s that Canadians LOVE, absolutely adore, complaining about the weather. And although Canadians will never admit it, the worse the weather is the happier they are. Sometimes, if you’re careful not to spook a Canadian, you can catch them slip from describing the bad weather to bragging about it. Try it, I dare you, you might even catch yourself.

In Australia, Nature Territory is code for 'surface of the sun'

With this in mind it should come as no surprise that the Humidex rating is the favourite weather term in Canadian meteorological history. Allow me to elaborate:

As I’ve already mentioned, Canadians love bad weather. And the only thing worse than hot sticky tropical temperatures is to make that temperature magically jump by as much as ten degrees with just saying one sentence, “Actually, with the humidex it’s…”

This one term has turned hot weather into a game of one upmanship. Humidex is now the ace up your sleeve when you’re talking to your friends in North Carolina, and you might even find yourself saying, “Well it’s actually hotter here with the humidex, plus it’s icky and humid.”

There is no winter equivalent to the all holy Humidex, but if there was it would have to be Heavy Snow – which I just made up. Whereby super dense snow would fall, and although it would only be one foot deep it would actually weigh and feel like you were carrying twice the weight of snow. Imagine the complaining we could do as a country then!

Maple syrup has limited hydration properties. It should only be used as a last resort.

Now I’m sure I’ll get some bitchy comment from somebody about something I’ve said. First and foremost, nobody tied you to a chair and force-fed you this blog – with the exception of a few people and you know who you are. So if you choose to complain about my choice of topic or stance on the issue you’re proving my point about the Canadian passion for complaining. For this I am grateful. Second of all, I too am Canadian and I too love to complain. So I’m not saying I’m better than you, just that we should be a little more self-aware and objective. That and I am more acclimatized to hotter temperatures. Point Nik. Finally, yes it is hot. Don’t go for a run in the middle of the day, drink lots of water, if you are taking care of an elderly person keep them in a cool damp sack and if you feel faint go sit in the shade or have a cold shower – you’ll find it more helpful than you ever did in highschool. I believe that fulfills my public service announcement quota for this blog.

Staying cool and looking hot are not mutually exclusive.

I’m done now, but it’s worth noting that while I’m writing this sweaty masterpiece it’s currently thirty-three degrees celsius, and that isn’t even including the Humidex…