The tragic, grim and almost entirely incomprehensible ending of Ibsen’s Ghosts involves Oswald staring into the middle distance like an extra in Apocalypse Now and muttering ‘The sun, the sun’. It’s widely held to be something to do with going mad from syphilis. But think about it: he’s Norweigan. You don’t need to have a mentally debiliating sexually transmitted disease to start having horrors about the sun - you just need a slightly warm afternoon.
Similarly, London has recently been unreasonably, immorally, hot. It was the kind of heat that made respectable people start thinking that maybe yeah, rioting is a valid life choice, and hey, doesn’t Greenland have quite a low population density? To put it scientifically, God pushed the wrong button on the giant microwave in the sky, and we came out slightly overcooked.