I thought there was nothing about hot weather I couldn’t handle with a piña colada and a positive attitude, but I had reckoned without peak teenager. It is not technically my fault that the temperature hit 28C, nor that it doesn’t seem to get cooler overnight, and while arguably it’s my fault that nobody has a working fan, the link is only tangential: I bought a rabbit, and the rabbit ate through the wires. Even that wasn’t my idea.
Yet from the moment consciousness spreads across the house, it’s an opera of 13-year-old complaint, gripes harmonising from room to room, reaching their crescendo roughly every 25 minutes.
It starts like a Tripadvisor review for a poorly managed B&B. Why is the airflow so poor, and the bed so hot, and the chair no cooler than the bed, and how, crucially, has the management allowed the temperature to rise so steeply and made no attempt to intervene?
Then it builds to a series of more metaphysical questions: what is the point of summer? How can a mind occupy itself thinking of nothing but heat? What if the whole summer is like this and there’s no possible escape, and nobody can do anything for six weeks, and that’ll be six weeks wasted?
At some point, I am always moved to argue that I didn’t make the weather, whereupon it takes on a political tilt. In fact, I did, because of climate change, which sure as hell wasn’t their idea. Then I duck and blame it all on boomers, which cues an argument about how old a boomer is and whether or not I am one. So at least that makes a change.
The non-verbal stage of the protest is when the kids start napping. I cannot tell you how much I disapprove of sleeping during the day, even when it’s me doing it. On the other hand, it’s now so quiet that it amounts to a state of active bliss. But returning to the first hand, I am choking on my own indignation, which leaves me no option, really, but to try to wake everyone up. Then it’s back to the chorus of Tripadvisor reviewers. But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining.