A (non-exhaustive) catalogue of all the wonders this wretched summer has deprived us of

The weather forecast is about to change; they say that from Sunday conditions should return to normal, with temperatures that are bearable for our poor bodies. This comes after weeks of unrelenting heatwave; this scorching heat has drained us. It’s all anyone discusses – how hot it is; yes, it’s hot in every possible and conceivable way. Nobody wants to change the subject; we’re not obsessed, we’re just tired. I’ve taken trains whilst fearing the train itself – another feeling I never suspected existed: if it breaks down in the middle of the Po Valley and we’re left for an hour under the scorching sun with no air, what happens? Will they send a priest? Perhaps this year’s climate catastrophe has taken a leap forward; it’s become all too real. Just ask the Parisians what Paris has been like these past few months. In London, Hyde Park is a sea of yellow, a scene of devastation.

Now that cloud and rain are forecast and August – or what’s left of it – is finally set to be decent again, with our heads a little clearer and our tempers somewhat calmed, we can take stock of this disaster: the Italian summer repertoire has been destroyed – the food, the ways of spending time together, habits that seemed natural to me but which, like everything else, depended on the temperature being several degrees Celsius lower.

1) It has ruined our spaghetti. In the Sacca di Goro, the water reached 32 degrees and up to 90 per cent of the clams have been lost. The blue crab had already decimated them; now they are giving up. The clams are throwing in the towel; they will not survive. You can find very few of the good ones, and they cost a fortune, or they palm you off with Atlantic ones that taste of trout. Clams were a climatic privilege; I didn’t realise that. I’ll soon have to say goodbye to my favourite spaghetti – et excrucior.

2) It’s ruined our Parmigiano. Hundreds of thousands of smooth, round wheels of Parmigiano lay peacefully in Credem’s vaults, also used as bank collateral. In recent weeks, around 30 per cent more energy has been needed to keep them at the right temperature, and even that won’t be enough – they could go off. Even the cows are struggling in this heat and are producing less milk, which isn’t even very good – it’s stressed milk.

3) It has undermined our friendships and our outdoor dining. Dining out used to be marvellous; you had to book an outdoor table – those were the best spots. That little outdoor table was the tiny consolation for everything that wasn’t working in this country, and that half-hour after coffee, tipsy on white wine, when all the best gossip would spill out, and we’d have a laugh. It’s all over. Now the question in summer has become: ‘Do you have any tables inside?’ The ultimate defeat: air conditioning ruins everything; it’s no longer a summer dinner, it’s just a dull, run-of-the-mill meal.

4) Sleeping by the sea ruined us. Impossible, a torture. It was a law of Zeus, sleeping by the sea. That hour after lunch, after the fried anchovies, in the shade and lulled by the cool breeze. The rustling lapping of small, calm waves on the shore accompanies you to Morpheus; it must be the sound you hear in the realm of the happy. Upon waking, an invincible good humour would take hold of you, lasting until midnight – the sort that made you say: ‘But why can’t life always be like this? Where did we go wrong?’ Now, at two in the afternoon at the beach, it’s like being a crushed viper.

5) It has deprived us of our small pleasure of criticizing those who went to the mountains. This is perhaps the most serious of all those trivial losses, because it undermines the moral hierarchy of summer people. Those who went to the mountains in August were the ones obsessed with walking, trekking and all manner of other incomprehensible penances: but why on earth would one choose to subject oneself to an uphill struggle even on holiday? We sailors used to regard them with amused indulgence; they were a harmless minority, posting Instagram stories featuring polenta on Ferragosto. Now they are always sending the same old photo from Trentino showing the thermometer reading 18 degrees. "Who cares?" is no longer the classic response from us friends; now they are the ones who are right.

6) It has become irritating. We reach September glad that it is September; the end of summer is no longer that Flaiano-esque feeling of nostalgia and plans for the future, but rather an obscene countdown to darkness, coolness and decency. September as a new spring – what an abomination is that? Is the aim to feel strong again? The old heat meant tans and healthy bodies, worn out by salt and sea water. No iodine—we’ve been breathing the artificial air of air-conditioners. That means dark circles and sagging faces; we look older and we’re certainly grumpier—for two months now we’ve been sleeping as if we had newborns. Beautiful summer, where are you?