I’ve often said that there’s no better combination than London and the sun. People are excited, spilling out of pubs, and running around parks like little kids. And the city just looks even more beautiful than it normally does.

But maybe I was wrong. London and the sun when it’s 35 degrees outside is slightly less fun. I realised this last night when, having carried my laptop and some unnecessarily heavy groceries on my back for about 30 minutes, sweat desperately trying to sneak into the corner of my eye while I attempted to twitch it off-course, a bus suddenly stopped in front of me and vomited out a load of toxic, boiling hot fumes into my face.

Like any good Londoner, I didn’t react to this inconvenience. Aside from the tears that began forming in my eyes, of course. Through these tears, I glanced around me and witnessed a scene reminiscent of one of those Renaissance paintings of people being dragged to hell. All around me were eyes that seemed to scream “Agghh, it’s 35 degrees now, outside, and I need to go about a mile underground and into a speeding metal tube in order to get home.”

It looked to me like some people were seriously contemplating the pros and cons of hiding in somebody’s front garden for the night instead of making that journey. Better perhaps just to ride it out.

When I arrived at my sister’s flat, I was greeted by the now all too familiar sight of her cat with all four legs stretched out on the wooden floor. Giving me the eyes for turning up the heat in the world.

After apologising to the cat, I sat on the edge of the sofa and squeezed my face about as close as it could possibly get to the open window in the living room in order to suck in the odd breeze that passed by every 20 minutes or so.

Those who aren’t from this strange, weather obsessed land, might struggle to understand what the big deal is. Yeah, this is summer. It’s what happens. Deal with it. But what they may not understand is that our homes are basically designed to keep us warm in the winter. It also means that during a heatwave in the summer, they suck in all of the heat generated during the day, and then slowly and methodically blow it all over your face at night as you stare at the ceiling and wonder as it becomes light outside whether it’s even worth trying to get to sleep anymore.

This time last week I was at home in Barcelona. There, I would occasionally go out onto the balcony to enjoy the heat, safe in the knowledge that I could slide back inside to sit under the sweet, cool draft of the air conditioner. Last night was my punishment for taking that deliciously crisp breeze for granted.

I still think London and the sun is an amazing combination. Of course I do. But maybe 25 degrees is enough. At least until we insist that air conditioning units be made mandatory.