In some contexts, this sort of heat is sexy. You know, ceiling fan slowly rotating, orange light spilling through a veneitian blind, illuminating a room with a bed containing an attractive person of appropriate gender wearing not very much aside from a sheen of sweat, bourbon and ice on a rickety table, jazz filtering in from somewhere up the street. Sexy.

London is not sexy in the heat. London is a great mass of sweating stone. I can hear the honk of buses from out the window, I have no venetian blinds or ceiling fan, I am going to the gym shortly, so cannot have the bourbon and ice, and worst of all, there are no attractive naked people in my bed. What’s the point of this sort of heat, then, I ask you?