It is. Come on. It isn’t just me is it?
I think the worst part of it is that the wind is having itself a day off, which it certainly didn’t clear with any of us first, cheeky sod. A lovely bit of breeze would be just champion right now, but it’s off elsewhere. No doubt somewhere cool. Instead we’re just left with the wind’s creepy arch-nemesis, humidity. I can feel it’s sweaty hands all over me while it whispers threatening sweet nothings in my ears. In my head it resembles Chris Moyles. In a cape.
It thundered a bit earlier. That was just cruel. It had all the hallmarks of one of those huge bastard summer storms that gets the world back on an even keel; I was ready to go and stand outside in my just pants getting soaked, grinning like an idiot in just his pants. Then it seemed to get bored and wander off, maybe the wind is having a party somewhere and the thunder was just passing through on its way, necking Lambrini and shouting.
As a nation we’re a bit obsessed with the weather, but very much in the same way we’re obsessed with Simon Cowell. We’ll religiously follow the weather and what it’s up to simply in order to be angered by it and shout about how shit it is, a bit like I’m doing now.
30 degrees, glorious sunshine, not a breath of wind? “Eugh, too hot, why can’t it at least bloody snow?”
-10 degrees, snow laying like my favourite type of pizza (deep pan, crisp and even. lol.)? “I can’t wait for summer.”
Perhaps it’s then unsurprising that various elements of our weather system are deserting us. There’s just no pleasing us, no matter what the weather tries to do we’re not satisfied. This must be how Piers Morgan feels.
It’s still too hot though. Bloody weather. Why can’t it snow?