No mad dogs or Englishmen were prepared for this record scorcher
The hottest day ever recorded in Britain. We couldn’t claim we hadn’t been warned, what with the preamble of lurid infographics, elaborate explanations of heat domes and dire warnings that if we peeped through the blinds or left the house our eyeballs could evaporate.
Some of us rebellious types remained quietly sceptical when Met Office Cassandra gleefully predicted calamity and chaos as the proverbial mercury was rising. It turns out they were wrong – it felt so much hotter!
Nobody said. Or rather they said, but they did not manage to convey the insomnia, the exhaustion, the fact that putting out the recycling at 11pm would resemble the Marathon des Sables. Gardens became no-go areas. My neighbours plastered their windows with baking foil to deflect solar radiation. I bought a “cooling blanket” from Amazon, soaked it in water and draped it about my shoulders, dripping everywhere. That is now my most-prized possession.
Like everyone else, I had pledged to Keep Cool and Carry On, but in the event it was far too unreasonably boiling, broiling to expect anyone to do that. Remember how we all patriotically claimed during our lockdown staycations that we’d never go abroad on holiday again if only the weather were better here? It turns out we were fibbing. No mad dogs or Englishmen were prepared to brave the midday sun in London, although police from Leicester to Battersea must surely have taken great pleasure in smashing open car windows after unforgivably stupid owners abandoned their anguished pets in Death Valley temperatures.
There was something poignant, shaming about the way these monstrous humans were greeted like returning heroes by their loyal, tailwagging dogs who had been minutes from fatal heatstroke at their neglectful hands. What these people were doing out and about in such weather is anyone’s guess. The idea of decent folk going about their business was downright unseemly as we huddled round desk fans and handheld fans and, in our house, frilly Spanish fans that had never seen the light of day since that family holiday in Alicante.
Was I the only one watching freezy-and-bleak Scandi noir in a bid to literally Netflix and chill? A footbath of gazpacho anyone? If only there were a meteorological ombudsman to angrily email in our underwear. I’m joking. Underwear? In this weather? I did briefly consider tracking down a Tory leadership candidate to berate, but concluded they were generating more than enough hot air of their own.
Offices echoed empty. Schools shut their gates. Public transport was so bereft of passengers it was a shame the unions didn’t notch it up as a strike day, hire a charabanc and head to the coast. Not least because the nanny state ordered us all not to.
And, as it turned out, with good reason, as the Tarmac melted on roads and runways and fires took hold. In the city, the static air coagulated and torpor settled like a thick blanket. Laziness segued into performative languor. After such an event, learnings will surely be made; primarily that keeping windows shut and curtains drawn against the heat actually works.
But another fundamental truth has become apparent too; sure, some like it hot, but here in Britain we much prefer it tepid.