'Ollie won't touch his gazpacho': Six very real middle-class heatwave problems

NOBODY understands how hard it is to maintain standards when you’re middle-class in an awful vulgar heatwave. Francesca Johnson explains her relatable issues:  

My employer doesn’t instantly accommodate my needs

Will my children’s schools be open? Should they be? It’s literally playing Russian roulette. I should have total flexibility to take time off whenever childcare could theoretically be necessary. Staff without kids can cover for me because nothing is more important than the wellbeing of children, especially mine.

Our special diets

In these conditions feeding Oliver and Emerald hot food could give them heatstroke and overheat their brains, in which case we can say goodbye to medicine at Edinburgh and law at Balliol. Yet when I serve up delicious gazpacho, they can’t eat it. I blame their schools for not introducing them to a varied Andalusian diet.

One ice cream is too many

Sugar is the worst drug of all actually, so my prodigies’ intake is limited. One ice cream a year is reasonable. But they literally come to your doorstep in vans like pushers. I confronted one seller asking why he can’t sell carrot sticks in a cone. He said no one would buy that and he’d go out of business. We have to end capitalism.

Our poor lawn

If you could see my huge yellowed lawn you’d weep. The gardener says grass can recover, but I find that hard to believe. Instead I’ve got the sprinklers on, the hose blasting away and Hugh bringing out buckets of water. The council should be round with water tankers and do it for you, but as ever it’s up to us to save the earth.

The seaside is working class

I don’t take my kids for a paddle and an educational lecture on rock pools to have them exposed to swearing, fried dough and obesity. If it were up to me, I’d only allow people onto the beach with proof of having attended a Russell Group university. It sounds elitist, but life is elitist. We don’t let chimps drive cars.

I’ll be lucky to have one holiday

First it was airport staff and now the runways are melting. I’ve done two years without a foreign holiday that counts and I need this one if I’m to function in my demanding dog treats marketing role. Couldn’t they make runways out of something that doesn’t melt, like Italian marble? Sometimes it seems I’m the only one who thinks things through.

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Hot

TOO hot, baking scorching hot-hot-hot stuffy boiling night and day, reports indicate.

Like holiday but taking the piss. Sweltering. No air-con buffet or pint in annual leave swimming pool. Burning and yet emails. Teletubby sunshine prick.

On-fire witness Wayne Hayes said: “Commute bus. Hot on bus. Crawling oven hell ride. Plastic seat third degree burn.

“Sweat. Drippy arms, squelch face, soggy bottom. Sopping, comfy impossible. Mattress dampness warm watery wet. Need something over you though don’t you.

“Furthermore, muggy. Sticky! Breathless clammy close, fan useless piece of shit blows hot air around. Air-con? Not here.

“Alternatively, ice cream. Cold cold numb. Whole head in freezer. Nap on Calippo. Elsa from Frozen inside teeth. Sweet lovely headache.

“Cloud rain next? Nasty f**k off. Glorious.”