it's 30 odd degrees and everyone is speedoed-up and on the beach,
gallicly shrugging as they sip their rosé. September 1st, it's 30 odd
degrees, the beaches are deserted and everyone is in trousers, coats
and hugging their cafés-au-lait as if winter is upon them.
It's not the changing of the seasons (and the tides of the sea) which
dictate their choice of attire but the date. I never understood this
mentality and they never understood mine; wearing shorts as I did
sometimes as late as December.
Fast forward a few years and the English summer finished in early
September. Well, the English summer actually consisted of a hot
couple of days in April, one in June and a nice long weekend in
August. Not a bad haul this year. For about a month, the heating has
been on on the buses, trains and tubes of London and the commute has
been jumpered and coated.
So, despite being warned of an Indian summer and having time to plan
appropriate attire, why do I find myself on a centrally-heated tube,
trousered and jumpered-up, wishing I was on the Riviera where these
temperatures are more at home?
I shall rue this situation as I hug my cappucino.