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| Letters From London |
| Humorous Views on London Culture, Royals, Gossip and Politics |
IS IT HOT OR IS IT HELL? - 29 July 2006
Stop. Shop windows on Regent Street filled with…I can barely bring myself to say it…tweed.
Remember tweed? Nubbly, thick, body-hugging, slightly scratchy tweed. To die for…literally.
Best to look away before a fainting spell comes on.
Hold on. I have dried leaves between my toes. I was on my way to buy lovely triple chocolate
frozen ice lollies via one of my favourites, Holland Park. While meander under a mantle of thick
foliage in my de rigueur flip flops I blinked; I blinked again. The entire walkway was covered in
bed of dead brittle yellow leaves. Dead leaves? Autumn in July? Have I been watching too much
TV? Have I been in a coma? Let me check my diary.
The hottest July for 300 years. Intense sun, intense heat, topped off with horrible humidity.
London is hotter than Miami. Hotter than Barbados. Two/three-showers-a-day days. It has been
really hot.
All the parks resembled the planes of Africa. Acres of lovely vivid green grass burnt to a light
beige crisp. Trees are dying; 200 year old trees. Men sit shirtless in the tall grasses of
Kensington Gardens. You can see their heads and now their nakedness. I do hope they stop at
the waist. Women in their underwear lying out on the parched earth during their lunch hours,
determined to acquire that all-important authentic I-have-just-been-to-Spain tan. Pigs on farms
have been furnished with sunglasses. Sharks and jellyfish have been spotted menacing the
British coast. Grumpy people are smiling. Wait staff find bigger tips. Oh what a little global
warming can do.
Britain’s biggest bookies, William Hill, offered evens for temperatures to break 37.8C (100F) this
summer. There are no fans to be had. Trust me, I have tried. Trains have been cancelled. Buses
reach 52C, the tube 47C. Trust me, I have been there. I’ve taken to walking. Especially after a
city worker in a suit demanded a bottle of water from another sweltering passenger: “I’ll have
that!” and he did. It has been suggested that the tube offer water to all passengers. I suggest
small personal cooling devices with or without rotating blades. Piccadilly Circus went black,
twice. Museums insure a trip to hospital from heat exhaustion.
It has been advised that we slather ourselves in sun screen until we are mere ghost-like
apparitions. So much for spay-on tans. There is a hosepipe ban. No watering gardens with a
hose, which excludes my South African neighbours who obviously don’t speak English; they
excessively water once it gets dark. I could grass them.
There is very little air conditioning in London except in Marks & Spencer’s where you can go in,
buy something, anything in the frozen food section: a raspberry torte, prawns, fish fingers to
press to forehead, back of the neck…or more creative areas. The store is so cold that the staff
wears uniform polo shirts covered by uniform sweatshirts with tiny M&S logos. Normally, I covet
one because it is so bloody cold in their shops. Not this summer. I want their job.
Thank god for short puffy skirts and deodorant. Not that everyone applies the latter. A sure way
to expand personal space though. Medics promise joint pain, shin splints, twisted ankles,
tendonitis from wearing flip flops. So? August is forecast to be even hotter. I heard the steaming
turquoise waters of Reykjavik show off your tan….
Stop. Shop windows on Regent Street filled with…I can barely bring myself to say it…tweed.
Remember tweed? Nubbly, thick, body-hugging, slightly scratchy tweed. To die for…literally.
Best to look away before a fainting spell comes on.
Hold on. I have dried leaves between my toes. I was on my way to buy lovely triple chocolate
frozen ice lollies via one of my favourites, Holland Park. While meander under a mantle of thick
foliage in my de rigueur flip flops I blinked; I blinked again. The entire walkway was covered in
bed of dead brittle yellow leaves. Dead leaves? Autumn in July? Have I been watching too much
TV? Have I been in a coma? Let me check my diary.
The hottest July for 300 years. Intense sun, intense heat, topped off with horrible humidity.
London is hotter than Miami. Hotter than Barbados. Two/three-showers-a-day days. It has been
really hot.
All the parks resembled the planes of Africa. Acres of lovely vivid green grass burnt to a light
beige crisp. Trees are dying; 200 year old trees. Men sit shirtless in the tall grasses of
Kensington Gardens. You can see their heads and now their nakedness. I do hope they stop at
the waist. Women in their underwear lying out on the parched earth during their lunch hours,
determined to acquire that all-important authentic I-have-just-been-to-Spain tan. Pigs on farms
have been furnished with sunglasses. Sharks and jellyfish have been spotted menacing the
British coast. Grumpy people are smiling. Wait staff find bigger tips. Oh what a little global
warming can do.
Britain’s biggest bookies, William Hill, offered evens for temperatures to break 37.8C (100F) this
summer. There are no fans to be had. Trust me, I have tried. Trains have been cancelled. Buses
reach 52C, the tube 47C. Trust me, I have been there. I’ve taken to walking. Especially after a
city worker in a suit demanded a bottle of water from another sweltering passenger: “I’ll have
that!” and he did. It has been suggested that the tube offer water to all passengers. I suggest
small personal cooling devices with or without rotating blades. Piccadilly Circus went black,
twice. Museums insure a trip to hospital from heat exhaustion.
It has been advised that we slather ourselves in sun screen until we are mere ghost-like
apparitions. So much for spay-on tans. There is a hosepipe ban. No watering gardens with a
hose, which excludes my South African neighbours who obviously don’t speak English; they
excessively water once it gets dark. I could grass them.
There is very little air conditioning in London except in Marks & Spencer’s where you can go in,
buy something, anything in the frozen food section: a raspberry torte, prawns, fish fingers to
press to forehead, back of the neck…or more creative areas. The store is so cold that the staff
wears uniform polo shirts covered by uniform sweatshirts with tiny M&S logos. Normally, I covet
one because it is so bloody cold in their shops. Not this summer. I want their job.
Thank god for short puffy skirts and deodorant. Not that everyone applies the latter. A sure way
to expand personal space though. Medics promise joint pain, shin splints, twisted ankles,
tendonitis from wearing flip flops. So? August is forecast to be even hotter. I heard the steaming
turquoise waters of Reykjavik show off your tan….
