If you find yourself clutching onto a hot water bottle as if it were a life-saving hand at the top of a cliff which had your death sealed on it. Then you must only be in Northern Ireland in the height of its scorching summer at 14 degrees Celsius (on a good day).
Yes today is the day of the whinge, I haven’t seen the sun in 6 weeks, and I’m starting to have major withdrawal symptoms. So desperate am I to feel its rays caress my casper-like skin that I’ve started layering on the factor 50+ at midnight and adorning the sunglasses while peering at the moon from my french-bay windows begging it to metamorphose into its much hotter cousin.
Where art thou sunlight? Summer in this country occurs for one day, and one day only. Normally in May, whilst you’re waiting in the healthcentre for them to check if the bed sores you are developing are caused by a serious medical condition or just because you’re too lazy to walk your mutt in the piss-pouring rain.
As you uncomfortably sweat from every orifice in your being as the sun plays peek-a-boo behind the cumulonimbus for all of about 4 seconds, you second-guess whether you should get the shorts on and the BBQ lit when you leave the cesspit of infestation a.k.a. the local healthcentre we all love to hate.
The ‘Great British’ weather really isn’t all that great. It’s always essential to dress for all 4 seasons in the one day. So that means a crop top, flip-flops combo, coupled with a raincoat and set of hat, scarf and gloves all being sported before you’ve had your morning cereal.
And with this, it’s time to throw on the Ski-jacket and cycle shorts for a trip to the soggy beach!