We Brits love to talk (and complain) about the weather, no matter what the weather is doing.
Too hot, too cold, not enough rain, too much rain, too sunny, not sunny enough, the list goes on longer than the combined list of David Cameron’s broken promises and political misjudgments.
Yesterday, when I left work, it was a bit warmish:
The late afternoon warmth translated to yesterday evening – and last night – that was fantastic; so beautifully warm and still.
It was almost like living in Granada again.
I opened the garden doors, as soon as I got home; sat outside drinking Pimm’s for a while, reviewing the events of the day, making mental notes, composing a ‘to do’ list for the next day at work.
Then I opened all of the windows in the house, to let what breeze there was, stir the air.
I was asleep by 10pm, but was woken at 11.30pm by a call. And was asleep again by 11.55pm.
This morning the air in the house is cool and fresh. Because I left the garden doors and windows open all night there was no stuffiness in the house.
The chirping birds woke me at 4.50am – ten minutes before my alarm goes off – and I sat outside with my mug of tea and ate my breakfast at 5.30.
It’s a lovely morning, it is going to be a gorgeously hot day.
And it is Friday.
What are you up to?
I have to go to work.
Marking today which includes sitting in a dark theatre & watching undergradulets perform. This *always* happens: rubbish weather until this performance week, and then gloriousness while we sit in the dark all day. But lovely bird song earlier this morning and fresh breezes. I’m not complaining until it gets too hot!
Sitting in a dark theatre and watching performances? Not too much wrong with this.