Butterfly by Gordon Lawrie

Barely a cloud was visible across the wide expanse of blue sky. In parks and on beaches, sun-lovers of all ages enjoyed the weather: twenty-seven degrees, the warmest of the year. Many had shed more clothing than perhaps was wise – they’d suffer the next day – but this was good time, time not for working but forsharing with friends and family instead. Ice cream stalls prospered.

Around six, the building heat turned to a violent thunderstorm, its rain rapidly erasing all signs of earlier pleasure.

And that was it for another year: Britain’s summer, one fine day, just like Madame Butterfly.

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