There’s a particular smugness that comes from people who’ve lived in hotter countries when they hear us Londoners moaning about a bit of sun.
“It’s only 30°C,” they say, with the casual air of someone who has survived 39°C in the shade with a sea breeze. But within days, they’re slumped in my kitchen, fanning themselves with a takeaway menu, admitting that, actually yes, this kind of city heat really does hit differently.
