The sun, the fan and skinnydipping

It's hot. Like in really, really hot. Like in I've put my head under the tap and have the fan blowing behind me kind of hot. I like to think that it makes me look like a movie star driving down a country road in a convertible, my scarf blowing elegantly behind me, my hair blowing ever-so-sexily around. In truth, I can't think of anything worse than having a scarf anywhere near me, and my hair is looking limp above my hot face. Or so says my BFF, who is sitting opposite me. He also just looks hot.

At this point, all I can say is: Thank god for the guy who invented fans. How very clever he was/is. I love him. Seriously. I'd do pretty much anything for him. Oh, yes, and, despite my whinging, I am ever-grateful that I'm in this heat in Africa and not in a cold place. I can hear the sounds of us as children, screaming in delight while running through the spray, midnight naked swims in our Portapool set up in the courtyard. We'd wake up, strip off our nighties and swim in the hot stillness of those Free State nights. Heaven.

I need to send fanmail to the inventor of the fan. Snigger.

Anybody know who invented the fan?