Tom Rains

It’s Friday and it’s 33 degrees. And the council estates are lively. The paddling pools have appeared from absolutely nowhere. Every front garden has one that’s 80% duct tape and 20% hope. There’s at least six kids in it, one XL bully, and someone’s uncle cooling his Stella cans in the same water. The shirtless blokes have emerged like they’re migrating for summer. White as a packet of Richmond sausages by 9am, bright red by lunchtime, still insisting, “I don’t burn, me.” The smell outside is a fascinating mix of sun cream, Lynx Africa, meat and steak pies, and someone’s wheelie bin that’s been cooking nicely in the heat since Monday. Someone’s bought a £12 fan from B&M and is acting like they’ve installed full air conditioning unit. Meanwhile someone’s nan is sat in the conservatory wearing a cardigan saying, “It’s not that warm.” The local Facebook group’s in meltdown. Half the posts are “Who’s dog is this?” The other half are people moaning about kids playing outside. “Can they not scream?” Karen, it’s the first sunny Friday we’ve had in about eight months. They’re feral now. Accept it. Meanwhile some fellas washing his Corsa with Fairy Liquid while blasting uk garage enough for three postcodes to enjoy. By tonight there’ll be at least two blokes arguing over whose turn it is to buy more packet, someones kid will have lost a set of teeth, and an air ambulance will probably be landing because Dave thought it’d be a good idea to do a backflip off the shed roof into two feet of water.