Hillary Clinton is in the tar sands hot seat.
Every floor, every window, every door to be sanded, hot-air-gunned, blasted, stripped back to the original wood.
I am a coward when it comes to these things — the sand is hot, the sun is hot, the water is warm, the mood is cool.
If you're at the beach and the sand is hot, bury your foot in hot sand.
But here, when we dug into the ground, the gray, gravelly sand was hot and smelled of sulfur.
Make sure I have my whistle on, my flip-flops in case the sand is hot, a long-sleeve and short-sleeve T-shirt.
The sand is hot, burning your knees through the stiff synthetic material of the jump suit – the cords around your wrists chafe.
Searching the landscape of Florida, with its palm trees and sand, under hot sunny skies, felt too much like a step back in time and place to Iraq, where he served from January 2005 to February 2006.
Now, I don't know if you have ever considered what makes the perfect beach, but clearly it is not sand so hot it burns your feet, disease-laden tropical sandflies, shark attacks and head-splitting falling coconuts.
The tan sand burned hot with little to shade beach-goers except a manmade tarp that was strewn over erect poles.
