The Husband and I, though nominally the same species, clearly belong to very different branches of the same genetic tree.

Although we both have Ashkenazi roots (Lithuania, Ukraine, Poland), lands of cold winters and excessive fondness for pickled cabbage, he yearns for the sun while I am very happy here in the UK, where summer is often more a term of rough guidance than a label one should take too literally.

This makes for frequent arguments when it comes to the planning of holidays. We got married in 2002 and had our honeymoon in Italy during what turned out to be freakishly hot weather for June.

As part of our trip, we visited Siena and when we entered the famous vast brick-floored palazzo in the centre, it felt as though I had set foot inside a kiln. I’m convinced that it was originally intended not as a palazzo at all but as a vast forno to which local residents could bring their homemade focaccias, ciabattas and pizzas for baking.

Last year, The Husband and I went on an inter-rail trip around Europe (our teenage son took his own inter-rail trip with friends at the same time but we were allowed to go too, as long as we promised not to overlap in the same city at the same time).

Unfortunately, our stop in Paris on the way back coincided with the peak of the heatwave. It was 42C. When we arrived, I flopped onto the bed in our minuscule but mercifully air-conditioned room. As we were only there for two days, The Husband insisted we must get out and do something!

“Can’t move — too hot,” I whimpered, even though the room was so tiny and so feverishly decorated with floral patterns on every wall and surface that it was hard to be in it without feeling as if I’d been imprisoned inside an 11-year-old’s stationery set.

“Let’s go to a museum!”

“Is there an interactive ice-cream museum where I can bathe in sorbet au citron?”

“Non.” He insisted that the Picasso Museum was only ten minutes’ walk away.

Usually, I am supposed to be the (slightly) more cultured one of the two of us, but now I had only one question: is it air-conditioned?

It was. Still reeling from the heat on the walk there, I recall almost nothing except for a display case that included some of Picasso’s fingernail clippings. Both my parents and my stepmother were artists, but none felt the need to exhibit their personal trimmings in this way, thank goodness.

Our next break will be a week in a rental cottage in North Yorkshire in early September. The average high temp there for the month is 16°C.

The chances of our having to be evacuated due to wildfires or extreme heat must be on the low side. I might even throw caution to the wind and travel without my sun hat.

But The Husband depends on warmth and high light levels in order to function so he needs to be recharged — I suspect he is fuelled by a solar-cell battery. He seems to need the sun in order to sustain his well-being — very much in the same way that I need cake.

So this week he is off to Mallorca on his own. Yes, he is voluntarily heading into the belly of the beast (OK, it’s a mere 33C rather than the blistering 45C a friend is currently experiencing in Sicily).

I can barely function once the thermometer hits 27C or so. In the summer of 2003, when I was pregnant, I pretty much reclined on the sofa next to a whirring fan for months, waiting for it to be autumn and the arrival of the baby.

When we eat outside at a restaurant, there is always a battle over whether to have a table in the sun or shade — if we are lucky, we may find the perfect table with half in one, half the other. The problem is neither of us is great at compromise. We are both very stubborn (or rather he’s very stubborn — I am admirably persevering).

Even though there is an objective reality to the weather — you can measure the exact temperature to confirm if it’s 33C or 34C; either it is raining or it isn’t — but our feelings about it are subjective.

For me, probably my favourite smell on the planet is petrichor, the delicious clean, earthy scent that rises from the ground when it finally rains after a long, dry spell. When hot weather breaks and it starts to rain, I will happily stand on the doorstep just to breathe it in.

Yesterday, we planned to go out for supper. I, ever the pessimist, wore my raincoat.

The Husband rang from town to say he’d meet me at the restaurant as he was running late but as it was colder and wetter than expected, please could I bring him a jumper and rain jacket.

I spot him on the street as I arrive, me relishing the fresh rain while snug and dry in my impermeable coat, he soaked through in summery linen. Chacun à son goût.