Monday
It’s just possible that this has been said before but … it’s too hot. I’m sorry. It’s all I can think about. Because there’s the heat – the external stuff, coming from the sun, rising from the pavements, radiating from baked houses, the unmoving inescapable hot air wrapped round you with no relief – and then there’s the internal fire of hatred boiling my blood about how much I loathe this weather, about how ill-designed London is for coping with it, about how much I miss my cardigans, about how impossible it is to imagine ever being cool or comfortable again.
