Brighton is a summer town. One of those places where people go when it’s sunny and hot – well, Britain’s version of hot, ie slightly less freezing than usual – to sunbathe, buy overpriced candyfloss on the pier, have barbecues on the beach, romantically gaze at the stars with a loved one, or strut down West Street in absurdly tight dresses, because even Oceana in Brighton is way better than Oceana anywhere else.

In Spain, where I grew up, July and August do not tend to make people happy. It’s great for the holiday-makers, who live in air-conditioned hotel rooms with private pools, enjoying the novelty of stifling humid heat compared to the subdued UK summer they’re used to. When you live there, however, you have to go to work, do the housework, deal with family obligations and attempt to keep your body functioning despite the unpleasantly high temperatures. Having complained about enduring this for ten years, I can’t complain about our summers, where no matter how hot it gets, every evening requires a cardigan and where you will wake up the day after a heat wave to the sound of torrential rain. But for those of you who disagree and dream of retiring to a Caribbean island, I have to say you should first try spending a winter in Brighton.
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