I love England, I love living here. I can confidently say that too what with having lived in Spain and in Scotland, two distinctly different countries that I have no desire to live in ever again, I can compare my ‘living abroad’ experience to that of ‘living at home’ and can without a doubt say that I prefer England. That being said, it is a bugger. More specifically, (and I’m being very British here) the weather is a right pain in the arse. Take this weekend for example. Yesterday, I sat in the garden with my (very pasty and only slightly stubbly) legs out. I sat and read in the sun, drinking cider and reading bare limbed. So bare limbed in fact that I sit here today, writing this with more than a little bit of evidence of having ‘caught the sun’. Today however is cloudy, cold and overcast and rather than emitting a healthy glow I look more like I’ve had an allergic reaction, so out of place is the colour on my cheeks.
I thought that I’d be spending my Sunday, working up a sweat down the allotment, shedding layers and cooling off with a nice gin and tonic. Instead I’m huddled inside, sipping tea and contemplating knocking the heating up. You can’t predict the weather or depend on it for any sort of consistency, and it’s because of this, lulled into a false sense of summer by the cloudless Saturday afternoon, that I woke up disappointed and irrationally surprised. How can it change so dramatically from one day to the next? I imagine these clouds were drafted in a by a malicious weather front, hell bent on dashing hopes and ruining plans. Last night we had a BBQ for dinner, this morning it stands, forlorn and out of place under a sky filled with gloom reminding us that it is only the 19th April and no, summer is not here yet.
And on that note. Rant over.