We are in the midst of a heatwave, here in London. “In other countries they just have the summertime. We have to talk about heat waves. It’s dreary,” so complains shrewish Nan in Iris Murdoch’s divine The Sandcastle. But she is wrong. Heat waves aren’t dreary. They are wonderful and hot. And it is hot right now. Hot, hot, hot. Desperate for a little relief, yesterday afternoon, I went to Trafalgar Square and put my feet in the fountain. For a long time. Yes, I did take a little break for some art in both the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery, but I was back. Feet in the water. Sitting on the stone rim. Thinking about the world. About Monday night in Manchester. I do have many thoughts about the atrocities, but I am not sure I have the words to express them properly without sounding glib or superficial, such was the horror. So instead they remain a feeling that twists and turns, sharp and hard and present. But unutterable.

Mostly, however, I just sat. Trying to “be” as much as it is possible for me to just sit and be. Looking out at London. A city I love so so much. The place I love the most. For all its flaws, I would not want to be anywhere else during a heat wave.  Feet in that dirty ole fountain.  Music and traffic and people all round. In the blazing sunshine. I must be the luckiest woman in the world.