GREENWICH PARK IN THE MID-THIRTIES

Apparently it’s England’s driest summer since 1935. I read that somewhere, alongside a picture of Greenwich Park looking like sand dunes.

What happened in 1935? I can’t find any info. Were the Nazis stockpiling water, or was it just exceptionally hot for a month or two?

Anyway. It’s hot again - back in the 30+ degrees, where the wall of invisible heat bulges in through the window and gets shifted around by the whirring fans. I haven’t been outside today for fear of being baked like a sweaty potato.

They wore hats and starched collars in the 1930s didn’t they? How did they cope? Strolling home with your briefcase and trilby, sweating through your woollen tank top and scratchy tie. I’d have hated that, I reckon. The only thing I would have appreciated would have been the small ring of shade provided by the hat.

I might have asked this before, but why did men stop wearing hats? Somewhere in the 1960s we just all decided it was time to ditch the homburg and the bowler. And that was that, without a whisper.

Formal occasions kept hold of them for a while of course, and probably the bowler hat was glued to some of the stuffier professions. Even in the 1980s, when I was around, Mr Benn doffed his hat at the shopkeeper before changing into his back-room-now-that-I-think-about-it-I-hope-it-isn’t-a-metaphor-for-something-dodgy-adventure-costumes. I was never confused as to why he was drawn with a bowler hat, anymore than Homepride Fred on the side of the jars of cooking sauce.

Hats would be useful for days like these - if you were going outside, of course. I work from home, and that wasn’t really a thing when hats were around.

Anyway. Sad to see Greenwich Park looking so yellow. Last time I was there (Spring 2020) it was as green as an Irish meadow. The naval college and maritime museum looked so out of place next to that desert wasteland in the picture - like the Wembley Towers suddenly caught in a Saharan sandstorm, or St Paul’s on a rocky outcrop.

The grass will recover, no doubt. The autumn rains (to quote Psalm 84) will cover over it with pools, and the place of weeping will become a stream. I hope. And when it does I’ll be out there, celebrating that we’re no longer in the mid 30s. With my hat on.