Parisians, those connoisseurs of existential despair, are now finding new ways to suffer: bathing in canals and chalking windows to reflect the sun. The Continent, as ever, scrambles like a startled deer as the mercury rises. Meanwhile, the British grid, stoic and unglamorous, hums along without a flicker.
How delightful to watch the fall of the Roman Empire II, this time with air conditioning. Where is your baguette now, mon ami? The old cliché holds: Britain muddles through because we built for endurance, not for the fleeting pleasures of a Provençal summer.
