A heatwave has descended upon Europe, turning the continent into a giant, sweating paella pan. While lesser nations crumble under the tyranny of the thermostat, the United Kingdom, as ever, demonstrates its stiff upper lip and a penchant for medieval solutions. Windows are being chalk-marked, cooling spots established, and the collective British spirit remains as indomitable as a badger in a bowler hat.
In Paris, they are erecting misting stations. In Rome, they are distributing free gelato. But here, in the sceptred isle, we have deployed the humble stick of chalk. Because nothing says 'we are coping' quite like a window scribbled with hieroglyphics that would baffle an Egyptologist. The Government, in its infinite wisdom, has advised citizens to 'draw the curtains' and 'stay hydrated'. One can almost hear the applause from the Ministry of Dithering.
I ventured out into the inferno, my shirt clinging to me like a guilty conscience. The pavements shimmered with heat haze, and the air tasted of exhaust fumes and despair. At a bus stop, a pensioner with a face like a pickled walnut was fanning herself with a copy of the Daily Mail. 'It's the humidity,' she rasped. 'Worse than '76.' I nodded sagely, as if I had been there. I was minus 14 in '76. But that is the beauty of Britishness: we all share a collective memory of weather that was marginally worse than the present.
The cooling spots, I discovered, were mostly pubs. 'Free water with every pint,' read a sign outside The Crown and Cabbage. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation. A man in a tank top was arguing with the barman about the temperature of the lager. 'It's supposed to be cold, you plonker,' he shouted. 'It's warm,' the barman retorted, 'like the country.'
But let us not mock. The UK's resilience is a thing of beauty. We queue for ice cream trucks. We complain about the trains, which are of course cancelled due to 'leaves on the line' (in July). We take cool showers and then immediately start sweating again. This is our national pastime. While the Spanish desert their cities for the coast, we stay put, defiantly making cups of tea that we cannot drink.
The chalk-marked windows, I should explain, are part of a new initiative to 'reflect heat'. Because everyone knows that a white cross on a window is the surest way to repel a photon. It is essentially vampire lore applied to thermodynamics. Next, they will suggest wearing garlic to ward off UV rays.
There is a deep, abiding absurdity to all this. But it is ours. And in a world of melting ice caps and crumbling infrastructure, we take comfort in the small victories: a slightly cooler car seat, a breeze that smells faintly of burning, the knowledge that, come November, we will be complaining about the cold. That is the British way. We do not solve problems. We survive them, chalk in hand.
As I stumbled back to my flat, I passed a woman drawing a particularly elaborate spiral on her living room window. 'It's Celtic,' she explained. 'For protection.' Against the weather gods? Against the government's incompetence? Against the sheer, unadulterated heat? She shrugged. 'It looks nice.' And really, isn't that what it's all about? Looking nice while the world burns. God save the King, and keep the gin cold.
