There are seven types of person in a British heatwave – which are you?

I am method writing this from my broiling garrett, hot desking in the solitary and literal sense. It’s 31°C outside, while inside, or so my fan informs me, it’s a toasty 29°C. I love WFH, but not in this weather. Terraced houses weren’t built for heat. What I’d give to be in an office, near a watercooler, in a thermostatically controlled environment so chilly I have goosebumps. Which likely makes me an OHC – overheated freelance cliché – for at this stage in the game, with the heatwave having lasted a record 37 days (according to the Met Office), you can’t be a UK resident without falling into one tribe or another. Read on to see whether any of these are your people. The AC bore In the lexicon of chat, few topics are more boring than the efficacy of another person’s aircon. You wouldn’t talk about the performance of your Worcester Bosch during Christmas drinks, so why is it okay to bore on about your 29” Russel Hobbs tower fan in a beer garden? The AC bore lures you in gently by asking how you slept and sympathising with the warm belch emitted by your Pifco desk fan. Once they have you captive, they’re off. Floor fans? Don’t bother. You need a portable aircon unit with at least 12000 BTU. No, not an X – they’re overrated foreign crap. What, you don’t have a Dyson Cool PC1 with ten speed variables and 350-degree oscillation? Yes, it is spenny, but they bought theirs in the January sale. Didn’t you? Shorts The acclimatiser Is it 35°C outside? They hadn’t noticed. This is because they’ve acclimatised. How do you know they’ve acclimatised? Because they’ll tell you at any given or ungiven opportunity. “Honestly? The heat isn’t really getting to me any more. I think I’ve acclimatised,” they’ll say. Not for them, the night-time hell of lying spread-eagled and sodden on top of a sheet. They slept brilliantly, thanks. So acclimatised have they become to Britain’s sweltering new normal that they don’t even need to walk around half-naked like the rest of us. They’re in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and this season’s leather jazz shoes, just to ram the point home. The animal welfare expert If it’s a tough time to be a dog, it’s an equally tough time to be a dog owner. Granted, you’re not covered in hot, thick, shaggy fur like poor Bailey/Milo/Teddy, but still, you have better things to do than get up at 7am to walk him, like sleeping. After a few too many Old Rosies in The Cork and Bank Loan, you accidentally set off at 11am, later than planned. Before you’ve even chucked the ball, you’re being verbally abused by a wild-eyed woman who seems to be accusing you of animal cruelty. You can’t catch everything she’s saying, but “paw pads”, “burnt” and “w**ker” feature heavily. Apparently, if you walk your dog when the mercury is higher than 26°C, you are the spawn of Satan. You go home, chastened, pat the dog with a cold flannel and panic-call the vet. The global warming refusenik Global warming? Load of b**locks. There’s nothing wrong with the ice caps: their neighbour’s cousin’s missus went to Lapland last Christmas, and there was loads of snow. As for the wildfires, they’re a conspiracy. Some plank – probably foreign – didn’t stub their cigarette out. Happens every summer. They don’t know why everyone’s complaining, frankly: 37°C is perfect weather for sunbathing, which is why they’re spending the afternoon in the Costa del back garden, splayed out on a lounger like Ray Winstone in Sexy Beast, right down to the canary yellow micro-trunks. Which saves the plane trip to Lanzarote, so don’t you dare tell them they’re not doing their bit for the environment. The statistician For every person who takes the heatwave in their stride, there’s a person who is scared witless. The torrid heat feels oppressive and without end, its airlessness leaving them claustrophobic and completely out of sorts. In a bid to remain calm, they seek solace in facts, as though the very act of knowing it’s the hottest British summer on record will segue back control from a vengeful god. They’ll tell you it’s the first year the UK has reached 35°C in May, June, July and August, and never tire of saying that it’s hotter than Rhodes/Ibiza/hell, as if they’re the only ones with access to a weather app. Be gentle with them, for they are Winter People. The ice cube gobbler In every house share or family, there is one person who unilaterally decides that every ice cube in the ice tray/ice bag exists for them and them alone, as though nobody else could possibly fancy a freezing cold drink to take the edge off. Clunk-clunk. Clunk-clunk-clunk. There they go again, plundering the freezer’s most precious natural resource with a selfishness that wouldn’t be so intolerable if they ever bothered to refill the ice tray. Do they know how long it takes an ice cube to freeze? No, neither did you until your fury drove you to ask Claude. 6-8 hours. An entire working day. Six cubes in one iced coffee is taking the p*ss. What is this, Starbucks? The hosepipe grass You’d think they’d have something better to do than monitor their neighbours’ water consumption, but no. Like an African elephant, they’re able to smell water from afar and will stick their trunk – sorry, head – out of their upstairs window to chastise anyone who has the temerity to water their herbaceous borders. “You’re. Not. Allowed. To. Do. That,” they’ll shout, enunciating every word. “I’m. Telling. The. Council.” The topless man Which of us hasn’t decided that tops are unnecessary in 31°C heat? Well, anyone with breasts, for one. Where men can stroll toplessly through the park without a care in the world, women have to wear bikinis as a minimum. Where men can get on the bus topless, women would be arrested. Where’s the justice in that? For some women [usually Gen Z?], the very fact that men are allowed to get it all out in a heatwave, when women can’t, makes them feel enraged every time they see a man shirtless. With the exception of Jude Bellingham, they think all men should wear clothes on public transport. It might be hotter than a witch’s tit, but that doesn’t mean they want to see yours.