On Sunshine and Masturbation

"How about this weather?" the train conductor said, his body smelling old and rotten. I smiled and handed over the fare, watching it sweat in his greasy palm. "It's a scorcher." I smiled again.
"Yes, it's end-of-the-world hot, isn't it?" I said and he looked down at his machine while the ticket took an age to emerge. He ripped it off hastily and handed it to me, not saying another word. He moved on and I looked out the window, watching a vapour trail of an aeroplane, trying to determine if it was arcing gently towards the earth, wings withered by the heat.
"How about this weather?" The train conductor carried on his patter with someone else down the carriage. This time he was rewarded with some chattering nonsense from an old lady.
Four weeks ago, I made the same journey while hail pounded against the glass. To flip from this to the heat in such a short space of time is deeply worrying for me. Global warming or not, this has to be a sign of impending doom. It's something I've been thinking about a lot recently. What if the sun is getting bigger? What if the core of the earth is getting hotter and more firey? What if...?

There another aspect of this sunny weather that unnerves me. I now work (sometimes) in an office which is near to my old friend Sergei's place of work. We met at the airport and became, like wartime soldiers, comrades in arms. His office overlooks a park, where students gather, sit in little groups and become loud and noticeable. Now, I have absolutely nothing against students, but the sun seems to alter people of all shapes and sizes. Shirts are off, flip-flops are on, and cans of Red Stripe are nestled between sunbathing thighs.
"Everybody is here to be seen," Sergei said a few days ago, his Russian accent thick in the heat. "It's nothing but meaningless posturing."
We sat on a wall bordering the park, and I unwrapped my sandwich.
"I see this all day from my window," he continued. "What do you call those trousers that only go down to the shins? And why do all the men wear vests?"
I looked at Sergei, smart in his jeans and shirt. He took a bit of his sandwich and chased it hastily with a sip from his orange juice. Just then, a group of lads disbanded and started throwing an American football long distances. They tossed it in lazy arcs over the other groups of people, puffing their chests and arrogantly demanding attention from all concerned.
"Ha," snorted Sergei, squeezing his juice carton slightly so the straw ejaculated onto the wall beside him. "Everybody hates America in Britain, but they all want to be American. Throwing pigskin, wearing baseball caps. Look at these guys..." He watched the ball as it bounced wonkily and infiltrated a group of girls who were lying on towels next to the bin for dog waste. A particularly puffed up thrower flip-flopped over and began noisily retrieving the ball, trying to chatter with the girls who were all heated and lazy. Sergei shook his head, as another group of lads with an American football started throwing in another region of the park. They gradually overtook the entire area with their self-conscious game and the first group sat down, defeated. They no longer had the monopoly. By this time Sergei was on to his crisps, and I was eating a second sandwich.
Just then, underneath wear we were sitting, a new group began setting up camp. One of them had a guitar. Sergei made an audible sigh.
"Now look," he said to me. "We just want a quiet lunch, but it's either 2Pac on the stereo or a man with a guitar." His face was scrunched up in disgust as the guitarist began widdling quietly. "Look at him. First he starts of nervously and quietly, as if he doesn't care if people notice him or not. Soon he'll start singing."
"I hate those parties where someone brings a guitar," I reply. "It's as if people need to bolster their failing personalities with something interesting."
"Yes," Sergei said thoughtfully. "Playing the guitar is like masturbation. It should only be done in private, or for a consensual, possibly paying, audience. If someone starting wanking in the park, it would be equally as offensive as this character."
The guitarist had started playing chords, more loudly than before. His group were chatting amongst themselves, but he seemed oddly isolated. Sergei stood up and brushed some crumbs from his jeans.
"He's ruined it," he shouted, more loudly than he perhaps should have. "He's ruined not just my lunch, but my life." At this, his Eastern temperament flaring, he stalked off towards his office, tupperware container clutched tightly under his arm. I walked in the other direction and out onto the road, where young men had parked their cars by the curb. Different music was playing from each stereo, creating a nasty cloud of noise, while the owners of the cars were sat on the bonnets hollering and whooping like rabid animals. The engines, of course, were running, spewing out hot gas onto the pavement.
The sun has a lot to answer for...