There is no relationship more complicated, emotionally charged or deeply committed than the one between the British public and the weather. During the long winter months we become weather martyrs. Every conversation begins with the same exhausted, dis-gruntled sigh.
‘It’s a bit grim today, isn’t it?’
The skies are grey for so long that we forget colours exist. We have to look at photographs to remind ourselves that we have seen a blue sky, once, in our garden, a long time ago! We shuffle around wrapped in umpteen layers like deformed onions. We complain about damp socks, black ice and the exhorbitant heating bill.
By February the entire nation has developed the complexion of an unbaked scone. The sky has settled over us like a damp woollen blanket that we can’t find the energy to shake off. Entire weeks have passed where the sky has never fully committed to daylight. You go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. If you’re lucky you’ve looked out of a window and briefly caught a glimpse of the sun reflected in a puddle!
Everything has become wet. Not dramatically wet, like a tropical storm. No, winter produces a far more debilitating form of moisture. It’s a permanent dampness that seeps gradually into coats, carpets, gloves and bones.
Washing never dries properly. Radiators become crowded exhibition spaces for socks and slightly sour-smelling thick jumpers. Windows develop condensations thick enough to write despairing messages like, ‘Get me out of here!’
By the end of February the British longing for summer becomes almost spiritual in nature. We fantasise about heat. The mere possibility of sunshine almost transforms our mood. We dream of sitting outside in garden chairs, the smell of cut grass and stand next to the radiator to imagine feeling sunlight warming our bones. Summer isn’t just the weather, it’s freedom, happiness and proof that life in Britain is worth enduring!
And then we have a few days in Spring when temperatures rise as high as 30C! What we have so ardently wished for has actually happened! Are we happy?
Alas, the fantasy of our perfect English summer begins to collapse almost immediately! The air now feels thick and oppressive. It feels as if the entire country has been sealed inside a greenhouse. British homes, lovingly engineered to trap every last molecule of heat during winter, suddenly become brick ovens. Conservatories reach temperatures suitable for baking bread. Upstairs bedrooms turn hostile by mid afternoon and remain unbearable until dawn. We wander through shops purely for the air conditioning. The brilliant blue of the sky and the excitement of the sun warming our frozen aching bones, has mutated into a state of sweaty exhaustion and vocal irritation.
And then begins the complaints. This is the same nation that spent six months yearning for summer, desperate for heat, fantasising about relaxing in their gardens watching butterflies and bumble bees flitting around carefully nurtured flowerbeds. We now feel betrayed. We didn’t ask for this! We didn’t imagine being too hot to sleep. Every small movement becomes too onerous. It’s too hot inside. It’s blistering hot outside! Even furniture seems to radiate warmth. Clothes cling, hair sticks to the back of necks and every slight movement produces a layer of perspiration that leaves you feeling permanently unclean! Oh to feel cool again!
The elderly dramatically announce that they can’t remember heat like this! It’s got to be ‘global warming’. During a particularly cold spell a couple of months ago it was ‘climate change’! News presenters stand beside glowing red weather maps and the government issues warnings to keep cool and stay hydrated.
Sleep becomes the greatest casualty. Lack of sleep, heat exhaustion, extreme discomfort, all combine to make this heatwave ‘unbearable’! Conversations now revolve around when this heat wave will break and if we’ll have a thunderstorm to bring respite!
Yet there is a comfort in this shared misery. Perhaps this is the real magic of the British weather. We’re all in it together! Deep down we don’t actually want perfect weather! Perfect weather would rob us of our favourite national pastime: collectively suffering through whatever the sky decides to throw at us next!
Jenny Burrell 