I was aged 12 and have vague recollections of how hot it was. Two events, however, are very clearly etched in my memory:
The first is a week spent as a family of five in a borrowed 3-berth caravan at Reculver on the North Kent Coast. The cramped, baking, airless metal box was like 'the oven' that Alec Guinness endured in BOTRK. Not having been away before, I couldn't understand why my mates made such a big deal about holidays - I was pleased to get home.
The second is the Silver Jubilee street party. The late 1950's housing estate I grew up on was a frying pan shaped development, and the handle part was closed to traffic on the day of the street party. A mate's Dad told me it was a mile around the perimeter (looking back, it was probably less) so I resolved to cycle around it 50 times on a bike I had 'borrowed' - took me about 4 hours and I was starving by the time the party started. A couple of years later, I spent my whole Summer's farming job wages on my first racing bike - the start of a love affair.
