It's April. I can't stress this enough. April. I think lambs, trench coats, and crisp sunny mornings. Boiled eggs and soldiers for breakfast. Maybe the odd cold salad for lunch. On a good day.
In no way does 30C (that's about 87F in local-speak) heat square with this ideal. Now, like most British people, I have experienced 30C heat - not in April, I hastened to add - only on holiday, when I am suitably disposed to cope with it, by doing sod all, drinking copiously and larking about in fountains. That's all well and good. 30C is fine then. Hell, it hit a heady 56C (130F) when I was in the Sahara. (Did you know that above 55C your eyeballs melt almost instantly?)
Imagine, then, my frank consternation this week, as New York City experienced the most objectionably hot April it has ever experienced. Oh how I clung to the shadows, and turned up the air conditioning!
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