Today is the hottest day in London. Ever. Well, that’s what the papers and their associated sites seem to be screaming, but I guess they’re not counting the Cretaceous period. Whether they are or not, though, the streets felt as hot as the core of the sun, and the city seemed to have turned a little mad by lunchtime.

I stepped out of the cool oasis of the air-conditioned office and into Broadwick Street. Immadiately I felt the heat wrap around me and I was glad of my shorts. I slowly worked my way down to Covent Garden where crowds had gathered around the various musicians, unicyclists and acrobats, then worked my way back up to Trafalgar Square, which looks so much better since they pedestrianised the National Gallery side.

The clear blue fountains were filled with wet bodies. Hot office workers rolled up their trousers and stepped in, never caring if they got their clothes wet as the water shot up into the air and fell down on them again like heavy chilly rain.

Some climbed up the stone pillars in the middle of each one and sat on the edge of the bowl from which the water went skywards, the overflow pouring out all around them, drenching their clothes and turning their shirts invisible.

Across the square someone had set up the world’s smallest nightclub. The Miniscule of Sound was a small garden shed, a glitterball at the front and the loud thud thud thud of deafening music coming from the interior, kept dark by a heavy curtain dropped down across the door. Two doormen in shorts manned velvet ropes, controlling the number of people inside at any time. Beside it, a mirror show, in a small wooden building of about the same size, and beyond that a small shelter under which ten or so sat still and silent as they listened to a man telling stories.

It is on days like this that I feel happy to work in London.

Until it comes to getting home, that is. We knocked off early to celebrate finishing the latest issue, so decamped to the pub where we could sit in the cool of an under-street room. K got a text to warn that the tubes had been shut down - or some of them at least - because it was getting too hot in the tunnels. That’s far from a surprise - the Central Line has already crept three or four degrees higher than the temperature at which the EU allows animals to be transported.

So, I left, and walked north through the heat to Great Portland Street. I was wet through by the time I arrived. After a wait on the platform, then squeezing onto a crowded train I found myself at Liverpool Street, where the indicator board showed delayed or cancelled notices on every train. It was half six. The 1720 had still not yet left.

It was all down to the heat stretching the overhead wires, apparently, and causing them to sag down. That made a train break down, and messed up everything that followed.

I pushed through the crowds onto the 1802, lucky enough to find a seat, and endured the guard’s incessant pleas that we should not overload the train, although if he thought that was going to make anyone get off he was sorely mistaken. Eventually, 40 minutes behind schedule we pulled away from the platform.

And then stopped.

Five minutes later we moved the length of a train to the next signal.

And then stopped.

On and on and on this went. There is no air conditioning on the crap rolling stock they use on this line, and we were moving too slowly for any breeze to come in through the small windows.

Soon the lights went out and the driver addressed his cargo. ‘We have turned off the lights to try and cool things down a bit for you,’ he said, clearly unaware that a single row of strip lights running the length of the carriage would make no difference to the temperature.

The ‘hot and happy’ slogan on my t-shirt was becoming more and more ironic. Or at least the last two thirds of it was. Two hours later we were still there. Hot and decidedly unhappy. I had edited two features and re-read the Culture section of last weekend’s Sunday Times. The air was full of frustration.

It was not over, though, until 21h06 as we rolled into Chelmsford, the first stop on the long route through to Clacton. I truly pity anyone who had another 12 stations to go. I texted Steve’s Challenge, who was heading in the same direction with the Midnight Weatherman. Weatherman called back to say Liverpool Street was devoid of trains; I’d got one of the last once out. Since getting home I’ve checked the running info web sites, which are mysteriously empty. Even the web cams that point at the departure boards are out of order ‘due to technical difficulties’. A conspiracy?

Understandably, I didn’t feel much in the mood for the gym after that journey, but I forced myself to go along anyway. I ran for 18 minutes and did 100 sit-ups, but was so hot and bothered - and frustrated - that I called it a day and retreated to a cool, refreshing shower. It was the best feeling of the whole day.

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