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.