Britain’s summer has been baking and listless in the main, weeks of bright, wan sunshine, unbroken by rain or any particular hope. In July, southern England received a thimble’s worth of rain—a shade over a centimetre—the least since records began, in 1836. On August 12th, a drought was declared in eight regions, and people were banned from washing their cars. There has been a monotony to the heat, an uncanny continuance, which has seemed to connect to a deeper apathy toward the country’s frightening immediate future. Britain’s economy is failing. The Bank of England has predicted that inflation will reach thirteen per cent in October, its highest level since the early eighties. A recession may be coming. People’s heating and electricity bills are rising at a speed that no one can quite believe. The nights are hot; the children can’t sleep.