A week after The Great British Bake In, it’s 13C and drizzling here: North Yorkshire is (temporarily) healing. I have been giddily sending pictures of pewter skies and cagoule sightings to my sister who, unwisely for a red-headed northerner, lives in steamy Paris. The whole business feels like a collective fever dream, but, of course, it wasn’t: as melted roads and scorched verges, drifts of autumnal leaves and warnings of an imminent drought declaration demonstrate, and as thousands of climate scientists testify hourly with weary urgency.
So, as our brains return to room temperature, it’s time to work out how to respond next time. Nationally, structurally, our lack of preparedness for extreme heat is a disaster in waiting, as more wearily urgent experts keep telling us. But, given the far more pressing business of choosing the ugliest possible font for leadership contest materials, and Dominic Raab explaining we should “enjoy the sunshine” shortly before much of the A2 caught fire, it looks like we’ll be thrown back on our own resources.
