It’s So Warm Even My socks Are Melting

I went out for a walk today.

It didn’t go well at first. I walked out the front door. And then walked straight back in again. Without meaning to.

It was my socks, you see. They must have sensed the temperature out there. Because they asked for asylum — in the freezer.

Mary said I wasn’t putting my socks in the freezer.

I told them I wouldn’t keep them in there for long. Then edged out the door. 

As we walked, I noticed a few things. 

I saw a Labrador out for a walk with his owner. Labs are wise. 

This one was wearing a sun hat with ice cubes dangling from it so he could lick them. He winked at me as I walked past. And licked an ice cube. 

Then, I saw a sea gull fly over, wearing sunglasses. 

I’m not sure but as he flew past I think he said something like: “Remember 2022? This is nothing. It got to 40.3 °C!” 

And I do remember that. 

Mary and I had Covid at the time.

So, we both moved into the fridge for a couple of days. 

Back to our walk, and I considered walking backwards. To try and generate a breeze. 

Didn’t work. 

Nearly tripped over a pigeon with heat exhaustion. 

Now, all this warm weather has confused the hell out of the occupants of my sock drawer. My wooly walking socks for instance, are in a mood. Because they think I’ve disowned them. I had to explain that the warm weather meant I had no need for them, for now. 

I’ve realised something, though. It is a verifiable fact the UK winters are getting wetter. Meaning my wooly socks will need flotation devices attached. Not sure how to explain that to them. 

And if you like facts, here’s one:

The UK saw its wettest 18 months (Dec ’23–Feb ’24) on record — 29% more rain than usual. 

And during our walk, we called into a local shop. And joined the queue. Not just for people buying cold drinks. But also, to stand by the coolers. A blast of icy air was delightful. 

Now, there is a serious fact, here, too. And a rather grim one. Heat is killing people — 10,000+ early deaths since 2020. Ask my sock drawer. I’m getting through more of them than ever before. The constant wearing/washing cycle is causing mayhem. I’ve got socks in there literally falling apart. 

We arrived in the city centre. And engaged in the new sport of “shade hopping”. You walk in the shade provided by tall buildings. And plan the shortest route to the next bit of shade. 

It got competitive. There were old ladies ramming there way in with their shopping trollies. I saw an old guy defending his shade space by threatening people with his walking stick. Two children stood underneath his stick. He accidentally created a personal microclimate as he waved his stick. 

Now look, I know we shouldn’t moan about having an actual summer. But at this rate, 40 °C summers aren’t sci-fi—they’re scheduled. 

And we in Britain, have no clue how to deal with them. 

A hanky on your head and Factor 50 dripping down your eyebrows isn’t a plan — it’s a crisis.

I’ve got a uniquely British cunning plan. We will drink more tea and have more weather-based conversations. Especially where at least one person says: “I’m hoping for rain. So I don’t have to water the sodding garden.”

Right, must run. The bucket of water I’ve got my feet in has just started to boil. Time for a water change. Maybe I should have brought that pigeon home. I could have put it in the freezer with my socks.