I thought growing up in New Zealand would have prepared me to cope with the UK’s heatwave – but this week I learned nothing could have.
I was raised in New Zealand, a sub-tropical island situated in the middle of the Pacific Ocean where the sun blazes for 2,000 hours annually. It’s renowned worldwide for its relaxed summer lifestyle and stunning beaches.
Two years ago I abandoned it all and relocated to London, and like an idiot I assumed my upbringing would adequately prepare me for the UK’s summer.
This week’s heatwave has delivered a harsh lesson: regardless of how hot and wretched you feel, you can invariably feel hotter and considerably more wretched.
Despite growing up in a nation that most regard as some kind of summer paradise, I have never in my entire life encountered heat like this. The past few days have felt like attempting to live inside an air fryer and I am that tiny crumb that keeps getting fried repeatedly until it’s an unidentifiable husk.
To compound matters, if you need to venture outside for any reason you must squeeze yourself onto a bus where the windows rarely open, in order to get yourself below ground to a train that hasn’t been modernised for nearly a decade, where the most you can hope for is a gust 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 perspired what felt like half of my body weight, my shirt was drenched through and I was on the brink of tears. I would have wept had I felt I could afford to lose any more moisture without shrivelling up entirely — and that is a sensation I never once encountered back in New Zealand.
One of the factors that makes heatwaves in the UK so particularly savage is the infrastructure. Not only are homes constructed to retain as much heat as possible, but in London, where towering buildings line both sides of the street, it feels as though the heat becomes 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 oppressive warmth remains utterly unbearable.
There is also a notable shortage of places to cool down. I have never previously lived more than a 15-minute drive from a beach, yet in London the options are limited to either squeezing onto a packed train to the coast alongside a thousand other equally desperate and sweaty people, or heading to one of the lidos.
In recent weeks I have attempted both approaches, and each offers only fleeting respite.
Despite the hellish temperatures, there are certain things I genuinely adore about London when the sunshine arrives. I find it enormously endearing how the entire city collectively abandons its composure and descends upon whatever scrap of grass is available, clad in bikinis and board shorts, making the most of the warmth in the full knowledge that it simply cannot last.
The heat also appears to serve as a great leveller — spirits lift all round, and the otherwise insufferable train commute becomes marginally more bearable when the woman beside you tilts her handheld fan in your direction, or the man across from you offers a sympathetic grin as perspiration trickles down his brow. It also presents a fine opportunity for small talk — something the British have elevated to something of a refined art form, and one I am still endeavouring to master.
Every person I speak to, from the barmaid to the nail technician, has an opinion on the weather or a handy tip for keeping cool.
It is this perspiration-soaked camaraderie that makes the oppressive heat almost worthwhile — though, if I’m being honest, I’d still rather be lounging on a beach somewhere.
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