I shrugged off the warnings about UK weather before I moved over here, thinking people were being overly dramatic. Oh, but they weren't. Not at all.
A summer of warm
and sunny days, of lounge chairs and freckles, seems unlikely. There was a glimmer of hope with an unseasonably warm March (a drought was even declared!), but I have yet to put on a pair of shorts. As if some malevolent weather-god decided we needed to be punished for March's happiness, we had the rainiest April in history (or some appalling statistic like that) followed by a rainy, gray May. June so far has been more of the same. People expect bad weather, prepare for it, dread it, talk about it endlessly. It's not just to make small talk;
everyone is genuinely curious about other people's meteorological
experiences. Misery loves company.
Today, for example. The sun is shining, but the husband and I are huddled inside, because there are 60mph winds rattling the windows and ominous black clouds on the horizon. The wind is making a howling sound, the kind you'd expect to hear on a barren desert plain, empty but for tumble weeds and antelope skulls. In England there are rolling green hills and lots of rain, but the wind still howls away. The occasional gust grazes the top of the chimney at just the right angle, wafting stale smoke from a long extinguished fire through the living room.
I just want to curl up in a hammock in the sun, and read a book while sipping a glass of iced tea! Sigh.