Many thanks to God for rattling his furniture around at some ungodly hour this morning, ruining my chances of blissful, uninterrupted sleep. Rather sadly, I don’t deal with thunder and lightning storms any better than I did as a child and even my increasing levels of deafness weren’t enough to hide the thunder. In the British summer, we know that thunderstorms signal the end of a short, hot spell, or summer as we call it. And so today, I opened the back door only to find it wasn’t even warm, never mind hot. Welcome to autumn, everyone.
I confess to have found the heat of the last few weeks or so just a little trying. I did not go so far as to literally adopt the British “It’s too hot, the garden needs some rain” nonsense, but there were occasions when at night I was drowning in my own perspiration. But given the choice, it’s always hot and sweaty first for me, especially when I check this morning’s temperature.
16 bloody celsius, that’s all. There were days last week when we were matching, sometimes exceeding temperatures on the Greek Islands, but not today. My regular morning check of Corfu Airport’s information service reveals it’s 30c there already, rising to 32c this afternoon and 37c next week: that’s about 100f IN THE SHADE. Here in South Gloucestershire we will, if we are lucky, be able to enjoy 21c with the added bonus of light showers. Nice. Worse than that, we’re back in an ‘unsettled’ phase of weather, which serves us all right for leaving Europe and staying on an island with easy access to the Atlantic Ocean and all the crap weather it brings us.
I wasn’t joking when I referred to the onset of autumn, even though it’s still July. The eternal pessimist I am sees me literally counting down the days to the literal start of autumn which is, meteorologically speaking, 1st September. Every remaining day of the alleged British summer is a day nearer autumn and we might as well be honest enough to admit it.
In the coming weeks, holiday makers will be returning to our airports in shorts, vests and flip flops, having forgotten the Costas and the Greek islands have the good sense to stay hot throughout the summer. They will step from the plane in horror, remembering they should have packed windcheaters, thick sweaters and actual trousers. I have done this before and recall my feeling of acute embarrassment passing airport employees whispering to each other, “there’s another one of those twats who thought it would be just as warm at Adge Cutler International as it was in Benidorm was profound. And all the while watching that Kiss Me Slow straw hat blowing off towards the runway.
We’re off out today for urgent supplies of wine and coffee and suspect I too will be under-dressed. As I write, I’ve still got the back door open and it’s only just warm enough to sit here in shorts and T shirt. But I can’t give up just yet. I don’t want an extra month of autumn, which to me is a mild form of winter anyway.
The people I really feel sorry for are those stuck today on the southbound M5, crawling to desperately overcrowded Cornwall where the coming week’s weather is likely to be as grim as, well, as it usually is in the British version of summer. Sit in that caravan, freeze in that tent, get ripped off everywhere. No ta. Been there, done that, spent twice as much as I would have had I gone abroad and come back with my pallid complexion unchanged.
Obviously, God didn’t really rattle his furniture around this morning. He doesn’t exist so there is no furniture to rattle. But if he did, I’d want a word. I’m knackered and colder than I should be on this July Saturday morning. If you’re the genius creator, you’re doing a piss poor job.
