It’s 6am and I’m lying stuck to the sheets, brain foggy and trying to muster the energy to haul myself to the bathroom after another sleepless night, wondering how many more weeks it’ll be before fans come back in stock.
There’s a half-defrosted water bottle lying in bed beside me – the latest 2am addition to what can only be described as a military heatwave operation involving electrolyte tablets, frozen flannels and multiple cold showers a day.
I catch my face in the mirror, puffy after several weeks of little-to-no sleep and a much-reduced exercise routine, while my boyfriend announces he’s off on a 10k run. He had three pints last night and it’s already 26°C outside, but he seems unperturbed.
The other day, as my make-up slowly slid off my face on our way to a wedding, he told me he’d actually found the 35°C days quite pleasant. I arrived at the ceremony a sweaty mess, irritable and dizzy from the Tube journey, and joined a queue of fellow female guests rearranging our strapless bras next to the air conditioning unit while our male partners headed for the bar.
Shorts
