I believe I may be the only person in the history of England not to complain about the weather. I like it. I grew up in the American Midwest, where the weather kills as a matter of routine, and personally I appreciate being able to go out knowing that I will not be scorched and blistered by the sun, or clobbered by icy spheroids the size of pool balls, or forced to wade through slush, or left stranded by a blizzard for three days in some place like Peoria. I’m fond of wearing more or less the same type of clothing every day of the year. I appreciate not needing air-conditioning or even screens on the house windows. And I positively revel in the thought that I will probably never again have to shovel an automobile out of a snowdrift.
The English are unable, or unwilling, to see it this way. Living as they do in a climate that is generally kindly, if doggedly damp, they have a distorted view of natural phenomena. To them a heat wave is anything above 69 degrees. (Which brings to mind that another treasured newspaper item in my possession is a banner headline from the London Evening Standard proclaiming, “BRITAIN SIZZLES IN THE SEVENTIES.”)
Two weeks without rain is considered a severe drought. The lightest dusting of snow and London closes down. Only recently the London Times ran a story on its front page about a “blizzard” in East Anglia with “more that two inches of snow” and “drifts up to six inches height.” And almost every fall, the usually unflappable British Rail system is thrown into chaos by a treacherous condition known as “leaves on the rails.”
In my younger, rasher days I would explain to Britons of my acquaintance that six inches of snow cannot possibly be deemed a drift, that leaves on the tracks is not a recognized peril to transportation systems in the real world. A blizzard, I would explain, is when you can’t get your front door open. Cold weather is when you leave part of your flesh on the car door handle. A heat wave is when candles bend over in their holders and dogs lie on the ground with their feet in the air.
My companions would listen politely—the English are, after all, unfailingly polite—allow a moment for my remarks to settle, then turn to each other and say, “Did you hear they’re forecasting more rain for the weekend?”
Nowadays, I don’t even try to correct them. It’s their country, after all, and decidedly their weather. So when someone says to me, “Dreadful day,” I nod my head sagely, but in solemn agreement, and say, “Shocking, absolutely shocking.”
