I’m not terribly keen on summer as a rule. I tend to spend the months of January and February mentally counting down “only 8 weeks to go until autumn”, “only 7 weeks to go to autumn”.

I hate feeling hot and sweaty. I hate having to get on stinky crowded trains in the afternoon. I hate having to get dressed in long pants and shirts when it’s already 26 a 7am. I hate it how even the shortest run becomes some sort of endurance event.

So I really just want to grit my teeth and hold on until it’s all over.

When April hits and the weather starts to cool, I am at my happiest. But at this time of year, I start to get a bit down at the mouth.

Melbourne this week has given us a bit of a taste of summer – 3 consecutive days over 30 degrees. I’m not happy.

On the weekend I ran a gentle paced 15km in the afternoon. It was only 24 degrees but I was wrecked at the finish. This morning I ran 12.5km quite early, but even at 6am I was sweating like a pig in a sauna.

Yes, I probably should harden the f**k up, but I’d really rather not.

It’s time to move to New Zealand.