The UK is sizzling. And not just by British standards: in Knightsbridge yesterday some of the convertible Lamborghinis with Emirati plates had their drop-tops dropped. Unprecedented scenes. The heat means that the power dynamics afoot within the capital’s offices are going to be much, much more complex. Because inside – although admittedly not everywhere here – air-con reigns. And where air-con happens, office politics are writ large. To misquote Michael Jackson, when it comes to air-con, I’m a fighter, not a lover – and that’s because no one knows how to do it. In short form, then, let me tell you how.
If it’s 39C outside, don’t set the thermostat to 19 just because you’re a bit hot. When you walk in and reach for a polo neck you know you’re in trouble. Twenty-three works for me. Don’t get catty and get caught in air-con tennis (also known as thermo-rodeo). This is where the hotties and the coldies play tit-for-tat with temperatures in a battle to the end. Eighteen – bang! Twenty-five – sock! Sixteen – kerpow! And so on. This is a bore and gives people colds. Twenty-three works for me. Dress for the weather, not for the air con. If it’s warm, let it – not all but a bit – hang out. There’s a lot of year spent prim and proper in a tailored shirt and a navy jacket: this week ain’t it, baby. Go on: show me your elbows.
And finally, hotness is hot. The weekend is nine hours away (maybe sooner, you lucky lot in the east) so embrace the licence that the ascendant mercury lends and make a new friend in the workplace today. See you by the thermostat. Twenty-three works for me.