Every time it’s the same. The first gloriously warm day arrives and everyone agrees, ‘Isn’t this lovely? We ought to have weather like this all the time.’
By day three you’ve named every fan in the house. Dave in the bedroom. Trevor in the living room. The little USB one is Bob because he’s trying hard but not really making much difference.
Britain simply isn’t built for heat. Our houses were designed to keep warmth in, which they do nicely. But that means once the temperature gets into the 30s, they’re less homes, more insulated ovens. By bedtime, upstairs bedrooms have become punishment cells. You open every window in the house, point three fans at the bed and still wake up wondering when you accidentally moved to the Sahara.
The roads are melting. There are no paddling pools left in a single shop anywhere in the country. Supermarkets run out of ice. And ice cream. And salad, burgers, sausages and buns. And then the entire freezer and chiller sections. And despite all this… there’s still someone sitting in the beer garden saying: ‘It’s nice when you’ve got a breeze.’
Steve. The breeze is HOT.
Every garden smells faintly of burnt sausages and sun tan lotion. Dogs are refusing eye contact, while cats stare resentfully at you as if this was your idea.
And there is always that person. You know the one. Sitting in full sun, clutching a mug of tea, wearing a cardigan for reasons nobody understands.
‘Oooh, it’s lovely out,’ they say.
No, Mary. It’s 36º.
The water in the bird bath has evaporated. The lawn sounds like cornflakes. The cold tap is no longer cold. I’ve just burnt my hand on the steering wheel, and I’m seriously considering moving into the freezer aisle at Tesco.
Just as we’ve all accepted our fate, the weather forecaster announces thunderstorms. Everyone gets excited. The clouds gather. Lightning flashes. Three drops of rain hit the patio … and then the clouds roll on by.
By the end of the week we’ve all become the same person. Slightly sunburnt. Slightly dehydrated. Slightly grumpy. Tired of even a picky bits tea, standing six inches in front of Dave, wondering whether licking an ice cube counts as dinner.
Finally, the weather cools down to a refreshing 27°. Britain breathes a collective sigh of relief and immediately starts saying, ‘Bit chilly tonight, isn’t it?’
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