We’ve had almost two weeks now of unrelenting good weather and everyone is very excited: there’s an awful lot of inappropriate clothing being hauled out of the back of wardrobes; one of our cleansing operatives (dustmen) appeared this morning sporting a tattooed torso and Hi-Vis vest; and there’s a lot of folk who are going to be awfully sore in the morning. And they are all grinning at each other and saying how wonderful it is that it is so hot and sunny. Isn’t it?
Well no, actually. No, it’s not.
I hate it when it’s hot. I’m Scottish. I was born and live in a temperate climate (Edinburgh is more than half way up to the North Pole). I’m middle-aged, overweight and balding. I’ve got ginger genes from the Pater’s side of the family, and a dodgy internal thermostat from the Mater’s. I hate beaches, I don’t understand gardening and I have had hay fever since I was four (i.e. since long before it became fashionable). “Sitting in the sun” has got to be one of the most boring pastimes ever thought up by the human species. I’m sweaty, I can’t sleep and driving is a par-boiled nightmare.
Why on earth would I be pleased about this?
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not advocating the sort of rain-soaked, chilly disappointments we have had in the last couple of years, but I do long for the occasional Simpsonesque cloud, perhaps a refreshing shower late in the afternoon, just before home time, and proper, sensible middle of the night temperatures which have Mrs WeeKeef thinking about looking out a light cardi. That’s proper Edinburgh weather. We all understand that and would be quite happy really.
We could get back to complaining about the weather.