Dear Lulu,
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….
TTFN
Maggie
Past Letters
Smile, You're On Candid Camera - 7 November 2006
Too Good To Be True - 22 October 2006
Putting His Money Where His House Is - 4 October 2006
What? Me Worry? 19 September 2006
It's a Bird, It's a Plane...It's a Controled Demolition - 11 September 2006
I Smell, Therefore I Am - 25 August 2006
I Can't Breathe in This - 16 August 2006
Is it Hot or is it Hell? - 29 July 2006
Be Ashamed...Be Very Ashamed - 2 July 2006
Dave's Big Clear Out - 26 June
No Jewellery on the Pitch - 7 June
'Baby You're a Rich Man, Too' - 26 May
My Hair Made Me Do It - 10 May
Foot in Mouth Disease - 22 February