It’s hot. So hot it’s hard not to spend a lot of time just staring out the window at the big swaying tree over the road by the Fruit and Wool Exchange. I don’t really know much about tree breeds (is ‘breeds’ even the right word? I doubt it) but it’s one of those classic proud ones you find in the grounds of stately homes and in the backgrounds of BBC period dramas as some white-wigged cad trots past on his trusty steed. It’s too hot not to have a glass of water here next to me but too hot to walk down two flights of stairs to get one. It’s really hot.
