by Vivienne Pratfall on melting tarmac, a terrible Tinder date and Clacton gossip
It is far too hot in this city to be wearing anything sensible, and I have decided the national debate about whether to keep your coat on in a heatwave “in case it turns nippy” is possibly the funniest piece of advice I have ever read, and I read a lot of nonsense for a living. I spent the whole of Monday in the smallest dress I own, sweating through a shift at the magazine, and still somehow ended up on a date that evening because I am, if nothing else, an optimist about London men in July.
The date himself, for the record, arrived twenty minutes late, blamed Virgin Media for cancelling on him rather than the other way round, and then spent forty-five minutes explaining why Nigel Farage resigning his seat to fight a Clacton by-election was, in his words, “actually quite a smart move.” I told him that was the least attractive sentence a man has ever said to me over cocktails, and he did not take it well. I finished my drink, wished him luck with the establishment, and left before the bill arrived, which felt like the correct satirical response to a man who thinks resignation theatre is strategy.
What I actually wanted to talk about, had he let me get a word in, was the extraordinary fact that a man dressed as a bin appears to be running a more dignified campaign than most of the actual candidates in that by-election. Count Binface has apparently already faced down a rival group called Protect British Wildlife, and I would genuinely pay money to watch that debate. London deserves better political theatre than what we currently get, and it turns out we may be getting it, just not from anyone in a suit.
Work-wise, the whole office spent the afternoon glued to the England game against Norway, and I will admit I know nothing about football beyond the fact that Erling Haaland is, by any objective measure, extremely easy on the eye, and that my colleague Priya nearly cried when we conceded. I do not entirely understand the offside rule, but I understand a good crowd shot when I see one, and Wembley in this heat looked like something out of a fever dream, all sunburn and flags.
I did, in a rare moment of self-improvement, sit down and properly read a piece doing the rounds about Britain’s enduring insistence that it remains a global superpower, despite what is, by any reasonable measure, quite a lot of evidence to the contrary. It is genuinely one of the funniest and sharpest things I have read all month, and I would recommend it to anyone who, like me, alternates between finding this country utterly ridiculous and being helplessly fond of it anyway. You can find it over on The London Prat, and I promise it is better company than my Tinder date was.
The heat has done strange things to the city generally. Tarmac in Shoreditch has apparently gone soft enough to leave footprints in, there is a national shortage of good electric fans that nobody predicted, and every rooftop bar in the city is charging a premium for the privilege of standing in slightly less humidity than the street below. I paid it anyway. Some things are worth it, and a G&T at altitude in a heatwave is one of them.
I also had a look, mid-shift, at the Bury Tapestry story, which is apparently making its way to France for an exhibition, and found the whole thing rather touching in a way I did not expect. There is something quite London about exporting a piece of medieval needlework while simultaneously arguing about barbecue fatigue and bin-based political candidates. We contain multitudes. Mostly ridiculous ones, but multitudes.
Tomorrow I am promising myself an early night, though I say that most nights and rarely mean it. If you want more of my actual life, in slightly more coherent form than a diary written at midnight with the fan on full blast, find me at my author page at The London Prat. There is also a good read doing the rounds on the state of London politics right now over on this Populist Policy post, worth a scroll if you have five minutes and a cold drink.
Right. Bed. Fan on. London can sort itself out without me until morning.
Actually, one more thing before I switch the light off, because I promised myself I’d stop leaving things out of these entries just to seem breezier than I feel. The Tinder date wasn’t even the worst part of the day. The worst part was standing on a packed, non-air-conditioned Central line carriage for forty minutes because of a signal failure nobody bothered to announce properly, sandwiched between a man loudly rewatching football highlights without headphones and a woman fanning herself with what I am fairly sure was a court summons. London in a heatwave is a genuinely levelling experience. Nobody is glamorous on the Central line in thirty-four degrees, not even me, and I have professional standards to maintain.
Still, better than being stuck in Clacton listening to resignation speeches, I imagine. Small mercies.
