I know it's a lift, but how often can Londoners have complained of the combination. We know the winter, we all hate that historical hysterical winter. We hate RAIN, we hate SMOG, we hate GREY GREY GREY.
Now we all hate the HEAT and DUST. We shouldn't. We should be glad to be awakening to 20C and knowing that the day will rise to the mid 30's. It turns out that this was only the third hottest July this century with a day and night mean temperature in London of 20.8C, compared with 20.9C in 1976 and no less than 22C in 1983. I remember 1976 well, we had our Antipodean sister in law staying with us. Surprisingly overcome by the heat she spent the whole time in bed crouched under a wet sheet. I can't remember 1983 at all, how very strange.
To thrive in the heat all we need to do is to live as others do when the heat is upon tbem. Smile upon your fellow man and move more slowly. Heat requires steadiness and sloth, not over-action. React to reverses with a calming smile not a petrol bomb. Heat should make people more friendly and outgoing.
There is bound to be more noise: it is believed that that the Government Sound Index is plugged into the Reggae Rage of the inner cities. And maybe Reggae Rage is better than bottles; although I am of the age and persuasion that Mozart played loudly or softly cures most ills.
We can take advantage of becoming a Mediterranian culture by RELAXING. When on my gentle meander home on my bicycle through central London, a myriad of strange sights greet me. Those who adapt to the new conditions however transient and those who refuse to believe that it is happening to them. Amongst the unmoved, the middle finger of the left hand has become the coat hanger for the 20 oz wool suit. Unwearable in the heat, the coat is carried like some strange flag of inconvenience. Somehow this bizarre and uncomfortable ritual continues the facade of respectabilty that the wearing of a suit engenders. The wearing of a coat and trousers of the most elegant, expensive and lightweight fabrics, if the top doesn't match the bottom, is, of course, a NO NO for straight laced Brits, although the canny continentals, particularly the Swiss and Italians, have adopted the style. This means that on hot days the coat can be left at home. Some are even daring enough to wear shorts. Big baggy shorts in the Gurkha tradition. These are almost culottes but are starched so stiff that they literally have to be torn apart to enter.
I do not feel that the wearing of a tie is a prerequisite for brain power or constructive thought. In this pretty ordinary view, I am supported by some of the new greats in our lives. However this is the last item of clothing that may be cast aside by respectable Brits. I once had an American boss whose weekend hobby was to drive to the country to stay in posh B&B's, the ones where the host and hostess have dinner with the visitors. It always amazed him that as they drove up the drive, the host would appear from the shrubbery in mid-prune wearing a tie. Usually something grand and colourful like the Brigade of Guards or the Northumberland Fusilers. Did they wear them in bed he wondered?
But isn't it fun to be around of an evening when the pavement tables are the punters' prime choice. Everybody is confused by the reality that suddenly it's like Torremolinos, and we can all sit OUTSIDE and enjoy a drink and a meal in the evening. The skies are darkened with a million barbecues like the camp fires of a beseiging army, and over baked meats are proudly produced by semi drunken Dads.
So let's take an example from the quaint people we meet on holiday in warmer climes. They smile, they communicate, they pass the sausage. One of Mrs Fox's cousins on a Eurail Pass of yesteryear produced a finely judged index of sausage swopping, baby coddling and general converse between the toe of Italy and the eyebrow of Finland. Below Rome you will be offered salami, vino, and occasionally the bambino. In Scandanavia all you get is the cold shoulder.
Back to the London Mall