While we holiday in the North, London burns. The July heat is extreme, unimaginable, unprecedented. After months without rain, the dry city is like kindling, set alight by random sparks. From a distance it feels like the Apocalypse.

By the time we return, it’s cooler and the fires have been extinguished. London gets back to normal with a weary sense of catastrophe just averted. But the searing heat has left scars. Autumn has arrived early, with piles of dry brown leaves littering our open spaces. The grass is bleached a dirty white, a negative version of itself. A world turned topsy-turvy, and I feel helpless.