Are you British? I am. I’m even slurping a top-hat of tea as I type this.

As a Brit, I savour a good moan. And, as a Brit, the topic of conversation that arises most frequently is the weather. My favourite “everybody listen to how knowledgeable I am” fact is that the United Kingdom has the least predictable weather in the Solar System. Even the dust-devils of Mars, or the seasonal atmospheric-storms of Jupiter occur with more dependable regularity than the barrage of multi-cultural sky-diarrhoea (sky-arrhoea) that propagates our native throne.

Fate has conspired to situate us slap-bang in the cross-hairs of two of Earth’s most powerful naturally-occurring phenomena; the tropical ocean current of the Gulf-Stream, and the Stratospheric fart-lane of the Jet Stream. Depending on how far North or South either of these happens to lie at any given time, we are bombarded with a mixture of Siberian frost, Indian heat, Saharan sand, Nordic pollen, hot, cold, wet, dry, misery, joy, confusion, anger, or literally any combination of the previous, or perceivably imaginable, eventualities.

Consequently this means that for about 3 days every year we are subjected to a decent smattering of snowfall. Secretly, everyone loves snow. It’s pretty. It’s fun. It’s evocative of a thousand Dickensian yarns. Children, who are the most emotionally truthful of all human’s incarnations, positively beam with delight at the mention of the stuff. Outside they run, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, a cacophony of cackling and wondrous merriment.

Soiled Snowman

If you’re brutally honest, as an adult this is how you feel too. Or at least how you know you should feel. But in actuality, the slightest hint of the stuff shuts down offices, schools and public transport, water-pipes buckle and bust, the elderly perish, dogs panic, and Facebook explodes with vignetted alabaster snap after vignetted alabaster snap, coupled by a billion inanely uninformative status updates confirming the fact that yes, it IS snowing, I can see that, thank you very much you boring boring boring boring boring boring bastard.

Then, 2 days later it’s gone.

Eurgh, back to the grind, we bemoan. Yawn. Back to the bleary-eyed early-morning-gridlock school-run. Back to the nauseatingly over-priced buses and trains. Better phone the £80 call-out charge plumber who won’t even be able to sort the mess for another 2 weeks until his van has been air-lifted off a nearby moraine  Better bury selfish, dead Grandma. Better take the dog to the psychiatrist. Let me just update Facebook to tell all my boring friends about my boring tribulations. They understand.

God save the Queen.

*Elizabeth Windsor likes this*


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