I got home yesterday afternoon, sweaty and sticky from the heat...

I get out at Warwick Avenue tube station and decide to be lazy, I'll wait for a bus to avoid a ten minute walk in the heat. The number 6 comes, full of mothers and prams, hot and bothered, sweaty and the stench of humanity is thick in the air, mixed with the reek of chewing gum emanating from gnashing jaws, lifeless faces, labotomised heads, all this wrestles my nostrils.

The stairs in the building seem longer than usual, more effort, the air in the hallways dense and sticky, short of oxygen, difficult to breath. Coming up the last flight of stairs I hear a voice come from the heavens, Phil pokes his head through the loft door, the sun shining through behind him. It's too hot, there's no way I'm going up on to the roof now so I strain my neck telling him about my day and enquiring about his.

No air is moving through the flat even though all the windows are open, even the loft door. I strip down and I couldn't be bothered, so I throw my clothes on the floor except my new jeans, I hang those up. I'm tired and hot, so I lie down and sleep for a while.

When I wake up, I take a cold can of lager from the fridge and go up on the roof. I prefer my beer in a glass but I'll let it slip this time. Phil says he's got dinner sorted, another rooftop BBQ. He's been to Solomons and there's lamb kofti, pickled red turnips, hummous, spicy tomato salad and pita bread ready to be eaten. Solomons is great, you can get anything there, there aren't many corner shops you can actually live off.

Phil tells me he's finishing off his laundry so I take on the task of preparing the rest of the food for the BBQ. We've run out of wooden skewers, there's only four left so I run to the lounge window and shout to Phil who's halfway across the road - I don't think he likes this neanderthal form of communication but I think it would be cruel to make him suffer the heat of the laundry and the stifled stairways only to exile him to the shop to buy more skewers when he gets back to the flat.

In his absence I make do with the four skewers I have, my chef's training results in four equal lamb koftis, perfect. I roll them in clingwrap and twist them till they look like tight sausages, more kitchen tips. I pack everything neatly on to one tray and make my way up the ladder, we have the rooftop BBQ down to a precise art. The tray has tomato salad, hummous, koftis, pickles, lemon and chilli sauce, paper plates, a length of tin foil, a cold can of beer, a knife, a fork, a spoon and a disposable BBQ.

Up on the roof it's warm, I open my shirt and consider going back down to get my sunglasses. I light the BBQ, these disposable packs are quite furious, they'll burn your food if you underestimate them. I crack open my beer, sit back on one of the plastic garden chairs we now have up on the roof and admire the roof-scape of London. I admire the streaks in the sky from all the planes taking off from Heathrow towards the west - they cut through the sky and leave a trail of condensate where they've disturbed the peace and quiet, the air up ahead complaining, hissing that it's been cut through. The streaks sharp at first, then melt away and fade. I turn my attention to the burning pack next to the chimney, it's nearly ready to use, still burning red though.

Phil joins me on the roof, he's got the backgammon with him and more cold beer. I get the koftis on the grill and I lay out the rest of the food. Wasps are flying around the food, I wave a paper plate at them, since I got stung last weekend I don't feel like having them too close. The lamb kebabs come out perfectly, we make our pitas and eat - nothing being said apart from mmm's and groans in appreciation of the good food, easy and convenient, conserving energy in the heat. The koftis go down well, I'm leaning back on the chair, wiping my mouth and hands. The air has cooled slightly, a faint breeze picks up and the sun is setting which makes all the buildings across London take on a red hue. It has a wonderful quality to it, mesmerising. Phil lights a joint, smokes it for a minute or two, nothing being said, and passes it on. The sky turning pink, the skyline darkening, the rooftops become more unclear, terraces becoming one - London merging.

I pass the joint back to Phil, nothing said, I reach for my beer which is on the ledge to my left, lean my head back bringing the can up to my mouth and tilt it, let the cold beer pour into my mouth. I feel something alien in with the beer, before I swallow I realise there's a wasp in the can. Another reason to drink beer out of a glass. Still in silence, Phil facing me, and within a second, a fountain of beer spurts from my mouth, I start spitting and cussing and in the panic I realise that the wee bugger is on my bottom lip and not letting go, it feels as big as a prawn clawing on to my lip. I try and wash it away, get it caught in the stream of beer still foaming from my mouth - I feel the sting and realise it's too late. These waps can sting more than once so I have to pull it off manually. It does not want to let go, I feel it clinging on, but eventually lets go. Phil's staring at me, I think that all came as a bit of a surprise, there's no way I would be objecting to the beer, so there must have been some other excusable reason for spitting beer all over the place. My lip hurts, I can't believe I just got stung on the lip. Phil says the ladies will be happy, they never seemed to have any problems with Mick Jagger's lips.