The forecast shows a crimson smear,
A map of doom, a panic near.
The mercury begins to climb,
And Britain hits its melting time.
We trade our tea for lukewarm squash,
And let our stiff upper lip go wash.
The office dress code hits the floor,
As ties are chucked behind the door.
We moan, we gasp, we fan our face,
We run at such a snail-like pace.
"It’s not the heat," we wisely cry,
"It is the humidity!"—a tired lie.
We stare at fans with desperate eyes,
And mourn the clouds in azure skies.
We haven't built our homes for this—
A brick-built oven, pure abyss.
And yet, despite the sweat and dread,
We keep the stiffest grace instead.
With sweaty palms and pasty knee,
We sit and sip a boiling tea.
For come what may, or sun, or rain,
We’ll find a way to take the strain.
And when it ends, we’ll surely say:
"Well, that was a proper scorcher, mate."
