For me it was an exceedingly rare occurrence — I did not feel cold. Indeed so warm it was, in a moment of temporary insanity, I considered shedding one of the numerous layers of clothing I wear all year round. Mercifully I rapidly took a grip of myself and the jumper remained on – after all, we are British and surely should never allow our mercurial weather to dictate our dress, habits and routine; if we did so then on occasions we would change three or four times a day.

Whatever, it was hot – the most torrid day of the summer, with the temperature exceeding 85 degrees in Fahrenheit (what that is in Centigrade I’ve but a vague idea, and not a clue as to what it would register on the Kelvin scale). Having braved the heat to water our delightful, but constantly thirsty hanging baskets, my sole ambition now was to find a shady spot in the garden and sip a glass, or two, of chilled white wine. However, as I contemplated the perfect spot for my repose I recalled with dismay that I had to go down to the town to do a little shopping; thus, with a sigh, did I walk ever so slowly up the longish path from our house to the garage at the top. It is many a long year since I made this journey at any speed, but these days I move at a pace which even the Plymouth Argyle defence could cope with.

Arriving at the top, I espied a somewhat portly gent whom I know walking along the pavement; I was almost alarmed at the state he was in. For he appeared totally exhausted; he was fighting for breath, his face was the colour of a poppy and his legs appeared to be about to buckle. ‘Just walked up from town,’ he gasped, ‘lovely weather, but I’m not as fit as I used to be; still, mustn’t complain.’ He raised his hand in a gesture of farewell, then staggered on his way.

I got into a very warm car, meandered slowly down to the town, parked up and went into a chemists. Just inside I met up with a lady – a nearish neighbour – who was about to leave clutching a packet. We exchanged pleasantries then she explained, unnecessarily, the nature of her purchase. ‘Foolishly I spent too much time laying in the sun yesterday and now I’m paying the price.’ She displayed her arms part of which had the hue of raw meat; I sympathised with her – but was a touch taken aback by her response. ‘Oh, it’s my own fault,’ said she, ‘I should have known better. We mustn’t complain, as it’s the most glorious weather; long may it remain.’

Having made my purchase, I left the shop and ran into another lady I knew; she looked as if she had just climbed out of a bath so much moisture was dripping off her. ‘I don’t recall the last time I sweated as much as this,’ she wheezed. Rapidly I pointed out to her that only horses sweat whilst men perspire – but ladies glow. ‘Well I’m glowing profusely,’ she retorted. ‘Still it’s the most wonderful sunshine – we really must not complain.’ She went on her way and I upon mine.

Walking past a flower shop I decided to get a bunch of irises for Ann, a bloom she loves. Rapidly I changed my mind; for the bucketful which stood on the pavement in front of the shop looked much the worse for wear. I drew the attention of the shopkeeper to them and asked if he had any which were perkier; he did not; ‘It’s my fault,’ he rasped, ‘I should have had more sense than to put them directly in the sun on a day like this. Still it’s glorious – we mustn’t complain.’

I left him to dispose of his dismal, worthless stock and made my way back to the car. Just before I reached it I saw a fellow sitting on a bench filling his lungs from an inhaler. He did not look at all well. I asked after his health. ‘It’s this heat,’ he explained between gasps. ‘Plays tricks with my breathing; but I’ll be alright. Mind you, it’s a grand day; we mustn’t complain.’

I left him to it and returned to my jalopy. Turning on the radio, I caught an urgent message from the Met Office; they issued an ‘Amber Warning’ that this heatwave could be a danger to health – even to life itself; certainly it was filling A&E units nationwide. Thus, in reality, people’s belief that sunshine should be craved is misplaced; clearly it can cause mischief. The reality is that we British, although we moan about it, can handle cold, rain and wind far better than heat; also – an important consideration – the hanging baskets don’t need watering.