It's so hot the cat is slumping from room to room, bleating sadly, or hiding under the covers, whimpering. This is a clear practical cat fail - if you're trying to cool down wrapping yourself in a duvet is surely a bad move?
On the other hand, the weather also means that Canary Wharf have a festival of dancing, which is mostly about men cavorting topless in fountains. Well, it's not all brilliant - what was advertised as an "open air rubik's cube" turns out to be bouncing irish dancers with large lego bricks - which you'd think would be my idea of nirvana, but it was just annoying. "Yeah! Throw it here! Woo! Yeah" etc for half an hour. "Come on everyone! Mexican Waves! All right!"
I was taken by old friend Darian. We spend the afternoon being reliably horrible to each other, with or without performance dance. All his friends are impossibly pretty. Some of them are even dancers. We get home before it rains, and I spend the evening drinking Pimms and reading about the rediscovery of tomb KV5.