Unseasonal "good" weather is upon us (one might think that good weather in July is far from unseasonal, but one would be wrong because this is England) and the fabled Yellow Eye of Hotness is casting its piercing rays over our sweltering foreheads like a malevolent disco ball at a rave party in Hades. Wildflowers wilt visibly in the fields, sparrows fall exhausted in mid-flight, and even the normally stoic British cows moo plaintively and gulp from evaporating troughs. The site managers of our office building have so far managed to stave off the worst effects by directing their hunched goblin-like minions to whack the air-conditioning up to 11, but the general Stygian atmosphere of the place has just taken a distinct turn for the worse, as I have returned from lunch to the smell of burning plastic (or possibly brimstone, as my nostrils are currently hiding behind my ears and wincing audibly). Clouds of thick, oily, black smoke belch merrily from the machine room, corroding my specs on their way to the freedom of the air vents. Armed with gas mask and wet towel, I investigate further and discover some swarthy, bearded, shifty-looking blokes wearing white robes, huddled in a corner and holding a blowtorch. Fortunately they do not appear to be members of the Warwickshire branch of Al-Qaida on a fiendish mission to sabotage our servers, but are instead trying to fix the air-conditioning unit. I use the word "fix" in its loosest possible sense, because the bloody thing had been working perfectly this morning and it now looks like a burnt-out Mini. It has damn great metal bits hanging off which were clearly not designed to hang off. On a more positive note, the fumes are unbelievably smelly but have cleared my sinuses quite nicely.