blowing in from the west....

It is a common thing , known to all who call themselves British,  that the weather is central to our existence.

We can stand on a station platform, a queue at a supermarket, a bus stop, the post office, Fortnum and Mason, naked in the shower at the public swimming pool, waiting for the curtain to go up at the Garrick Theatre;  to anyone...  a man, woman, priest, or clown  any of the following:

" Looks like rain."

" They said it would clear up later."

" Muggy , isn't it?"

" Think it might break through."

" You never can tell."

" Lucky you've got an umbrella."

" Bit of blue up there."

Our weather is told us by meteorologists, although a little smarter than the original man in the classy suit, Michael Fish.

They have immensely complicated charts to point at showing you hour by hour what to expect if you are in St Ives, Inverness or Margate.

They know if they get it wrong, they can expect letters of complaint in The Times.

But that's all part of the game too.

Nobody knows. Everyone is guessing. 

But it is the language of the British. 

It is how we got through the Blitz. And Suez. And probably, the Great Plague.

Even today, the morning after the Minister for Home Affairs, has resigned following a nasty tabloid claiming he had paid male prostitutes for poppers and other services...at the swimming pool no one was talking about that. Everyone was talking about the blue sky that had just visited unexpectedly.

It is a way of making nice. Of making normal. Of making it universal.

And then there is the Shipping Forecast: 
‘Forties. Northwesterly six or seven, occasionally gale eight later. Fair or good’; ‘Cromarty. Southwest five or six. Squally showers. Moderate or good.’

Every night at past midnight the radio waves tell those in Britain what is happening in the seas around the islands. 
I never knew I was up that late. But I must have been, because I remember, " Dogger Bank, and Finisterre; Lundy and German Bight ."

People, including Judi Dench,  have picked it as one of the eight tracks for their Desert island Discs.

Stephen Fry, with much affection I am sure, sent it up with, " Malin, Hebrides, Shetland, Jersey, Fair Isle, Turtle-neck, Tank Top, Courtelle. Blowy, quite misty, no seasickness. Not many fish around, come home, veering suggestively."

Me, I am a fan of weather. 

battersea park. sky undecided.

I love it all. Rain, wind, drizzle, grey, blue, bright, cloudy.

St paul's with cloud cover

Cold cucumber soup when it is warm. Baked potatoes when it is cold.
Gingham tablecloths when it is sunny. Jigsaw puzzles when it is not.







Surprise me...come on....

hambleden,   garden dripping with mist

hambleden, waking up to rain.

In the meanwhile I am going to head up to north London to see a play about the Congo.
I'll take a cardigan, just in case.

looking up into the Battersea sky this afternoon. 

But I didn't take an umbrella. And I didn't need one either.
" Warm isn't it?"
"Wouldn't think it was September, would you?"
" I heard it would be nice again tomorrow."
" Did you?"