Last night, my phone, which was set to silent, erupted with the sort of siren one associates with immediately life-threatening emergencies. If you live in England or Wales, yours probably did too.

“There is a very high risk of wildfires,” read the message that appeared, once I’d fumbled the cacophonous phone out of my pocket. My lawn is brown and crunchy and we are living through the hottest summer of our lifetimes. I’ve just finished a twelve-day stretch working in a hospital with no air conditioning, and had finally sat down to consider a glass of chilled rosé, so it was useful to be brought up to speed with the fact that it’s been a trifle warm.

The alert didn’t warn us of an emergency at all; it warned us not to cause one

The alert didn’t warn us of an emergency at all; it warned us not to cause one

“Residents, landowners and visitors should not undertake any activity that could start a fire,” the message continued, “including disposable barbecues, fire pits, garden incinerators or fireworks.”

These details, I think, are essential. I had ruled out my gas barbecue on the grounds of a fire risk, decided against lighting the kamado and spending the next hundred hours slow-cooking a brisket offset over maple wood, before whacking the heat up to 400°C for a decent char. But I’d been seriously considering knocking up a........

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