Britons have a national obsession with the weather. This is illustrated by the way we embraced summer when it finally arrived this week.

There were no half measures. It was too hot for sang froid.

Stiff upper lips trembled with beads of sweat rather than fortitude in the face of adversity.

And bodies were bared to the world and his dog. Some dogs, it has to be said, were not impressed.

I was swept along with the euphoria of sunshine and temperatures I didn’t understand.

“We have been hitting highs of 30 degrees Celsius,” a weatherman said. Great, I thought. But what does that mean in old money?

Actually, 30 degrees Celsius is 86 degrees Fahrenheit.

Personally I have never been able to get excited by degrees Celsius. They don’t have the same resonance or sense of drama as Fahrenheit.

With Fahrenheit, 100 degrees is an achievable ambition. If we attained that in Celsius, we would fry like chips. Summer was here as if by overnight delivery from Amazon and I took my morning walk through the woods to avoid direct sunlight and felt sorry for the sheep in the fields.

They were still wrapped up for winter. Surely it’s about time someone invented sheep wool that comes with a zip so they can take it off in July and August. Make it easier on the sheering, as well.

I was dispatched into town for that essential summer item that no one buys until the last minute: a paddling pool for grand-daughter Jeannie.

I joined the queue in Argos. The store was busy and hot. For once, I preferred to think in Celsius in case I panicked at rising body temperatures. Could humans boil over?

I envisaged the whole crowd of us pouring out of the door and floating down Victoria Lane like a melting ice pack.

It was worth the trip into town to see the sights. Not the architectural wonders of the Victorian age, but the people who had shed clothes as if preparing for pagan festivities.

This was sun worship gone mad and I had to restrain myself from issuing warnings: “Ooh, that’ll be sore tonight. Better get a bottle of Calamine lotion.”

But who could blame anyone for stripping off beneath blue skies and a golden orb?

The media declared it was hotter than the Sahara and there were plenty of chaps ready to leap into the nearest pub and have a cooling pint before the mirage faded.

The paddling pool came with a carrying handle and I walked back to the car toting it like a trophy, those I passed taking note of my white beard and thinking: “Poor old soul. What’s he going to do? Sleep in it?”

Maria and I put it on the back lawn and attempted to inflate the sides with a foot pump.

This is not as easy as you might imagine under the beat of the noonday sun. Especially when, after 20 minutes, nothing seemed to be inflating and I discovered the connection had fallen out.

At last it was ready and filled and Jeannie, slathered with enough sunblock to swim the Channel, was splashing and frolicking. I fancied a frolic myself but, as I prepared to join her, two mums and three other children arrived.

I retired to my office. Later, when they had departed and Jeannie had gone home, I enjoyed a passive frolic. I sat on a chair in the pool with a knotted hankie on my head to read the Examiner. It was extremely pleasant.

The downside of the weather was that when the sun went, the night remained hot.

Sleep has been difficult. If it’s as hot again tonight, I may inflate a lilo and sleep in the pool.