So this is where the privilege of escaping to Cape Cod every summer begins to dissolve into guilt, as other poor buggers resort to the Pepco Diet. I wrote my Sunday column on Washington's heat. For this Englishman, that first summer in our nation's capital is one I won't forget:

To put it bluntly, it's less like a city than a kiln.

This is the kind of heat even mad dogs and English bloggers don't go out in. You simply cannot function without emergency supplies. A simple stroll out to walk the dogs will have them yanking you back home after their first sizzling pee evaporates from the pavement. After walking one city block you feel a small river of ick running down your spine; your bald pate (forgive me if I project) breaks out in a bubble-wrap of sweaty beads; underwear clings where it shouldn't; Dante would have a hard time describing your armpits. 

I remember my first summer in the capital, when I thought to myself on the first day of 35C: well, this is a joke, right?