You’re probably enjoying long, hot summer days less than you used to. Apart from the roads and the rails melting and the sleepless nights, there’s that nagging feeling that we’re all going to hell in a handcart. Assuming, of course, that the handcart hasn’t packed up in the heat.

Until I was 17, I loved long summer days. I would be out for hours with my mates playing football, cricket and whatnot, or darting around woods and fields, secretly pretending I was one of the Famous Five. But then came a particular long, hot summer day, the scars of which for me have rather ballsed up all subsequent long, hot summer days.

It was 1984 and I was breaking new ground. I had my first girlfriend, and I’d just passed my driving test. Neither of which, of course, meant I was any good at romancing or driving. It turned out I was a lot better at one than the other. She was in the year above me at school, which only made me feel more out of my depth. Having finished........

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