I thought my sun-soaked upbringing would prepare me for UK summers.
I was raised in New Zealand, a sub-tropical island nestled in the middle of the Pacific Ocean where sun shines for 2,000 hours annually. It’s internationally renowned for its relaxed summer lifestyle and stunning coastline.
Two years ago I abandoned it all and relocated to London, and like an absolute idiot I believed my background would be sufficient preparation for the UK’s summer.
This week’s heatwave has delivered a harsh reality check: regardless of how sweaty and wretched you feel, things can always get worse.
Despite coming from a nation that most regard as some kind of summer paradise, I have never in my entire life endured temperatures like these. The last few days have felt like attempting to survive inside an air fryer, and I am that tiny crumb being repeatedly cooked until it becomes a tiny little dried out husk.
To make matters worse, if you need to venture outside for any reason you need to squeeze yourself onto a bus where the windows seldom open, in order to travel underground to a train that hasn’t been modernised for nearly a decade, where the most you can wish for is a blast of grimy tunnel air drifting through the carriage when the doors part.
I had to traverse the city yesterday with a suitcase, and by the time I reached my destination I had sweat out what seemed like half of my body weight, my shirt was drenched and I was on the brink of tears. I would have wept had I not feared losing any further moisture and shrivelling up completely and that is a sensation I never once encountered during my time in New Zealand.
One of the key reasons heatwaves in the UK are so particularly punishing is down to the infrastructure. Not only are homes designed to retain as much warmth as possible, but in London, where towering buildings line both sides of the street, the heat appears to become trapped between the pavement and the sky, bearing down from every direction.
There is simply no escaping it, and even once the sun has dipped below the horizon, the sweltering conditions persist.
There is also a notable shortage of places to cool down. I have never lived more than a 15-minute drive from a beach, yet in London the options are limited to either squeezing onto a train to the coast alongside a thousand other desperate, sweaty people, or making your way to one of the lidos.
In recent weeks I have attempted both of these options, and each offers only fleeting respite.
Despite the hellish temperatures, there are a handful of things I really love about London when the sunshine arrives. I find it endlessly charming how the entire city collectively loses its composure and descends upon whatever patch of grass is available, clad in bikinis and board shorts, soaking up every last ray in the full knowledge that it simply cannot last.
It also appears to serve as a unifying force – everyone’s spirits lift, and the insufferable train journey becomes slightly more bearable when the girl beside you tilts her handheld fan towards your face, or the chap across from you offers a smile as perspiration trickles down his brow. It’s also an excellent chance for small talk – something British people have perfected into an art form that I’m still attempting to get the hang of.
Every individual I encounter, from the woman behind the bar to my nail technician, has an observation to share about the weather or a suggestion to help me stay cool.
It’s this sweaty solidarity that makes the oppressive heat almost worthwhile – though I’d probably still prefer to be at the seaside.
