If you never hear from me again, it is because I have turned into a little (OK, quite large!) puddle of sweat and melted fat.

This office is like an oven, and they say tomorrow is going to be the hottest day in Manchester since the records began.

My feet are like two little balloons, my fingers are slipping on the keyboard and my brain is a warm mush.

Why do buildings in this country not have any bloody air-conditioning?