Salvadore Dali was famous for painting clocks that looked so floppy they practically dripped. It looked like it was 200 degrees. On one day in July that was Manchester, England, Europe.
The air made a blacksmith’s foundry seem like the chiller department at Tesco’s. A sauna with a jammed door would have brought relief. Jumping into the BBQ seemed as inviting as showering under a mountain waterfall. This was the fires of Hell, specially stoked up by Beelzebub and insulated by Pilkington.
People were glued to the pavement as the soles of their shoes melted. Chocolate liquefied under the counter at Malik’s convenience store. Old Mr Johnson at the end of the road almost felt compelled to take his tie off.
Warren impotently shook his fist at the massive Jaffa orange suspended in the sky. Could this be happening in a place renowned for its rain? His suspicions were aroused.