Heat

The British people can’t hack this weather. We’re wandering around dripping sweat but sitting blindly in the unfiltered sunshine because we thing we ought to. Burn lines crop up in unusual formations and we’re looking at each other’s red faces in grim shock. When we stand up our thighs have to consciously unstick themselves from plastic seats and any handshakes or hugs are undertaken at risk of remaining glued to another’s clammy skin. Sweat streaks pattern the girls’ foundation-armoured faces whilst the men have their swollen bellies on proud display. We really look shocking.

I fell asleep with my door wide open so what little breeze there is could find its way to cool my sunburn and added sprinkling of freckles. It’s 6.30am and already 29 degrees. Pieces of the outside filter into in my room and I listen to the world as neighbours argue and put out their recycling (which today solely consists of ice lolly wrappers). We’re all slightly disappointed that, once again, we have to ‘make the most of the beautiful weather’ and are secretly peering into the overly-blue horizons in search of the more characteristic rain clouds. We’re not made for this. We’re tea-drinkers with a ridiculously large stock of hot water bottles and wellies. And so, as ever, the British people complain about the weather.

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