That’s it, I’m calling it: this is the worst summer ever. Despite the fact we are currently seeing a fleeting glimpse of sun, the weather has been notably dismal. The Met Office says it could be the coldest summer of the past 24 years. Last week, it started raining inside our bedroom as well as outside, and, after days and days of cold and wet weather, that felt like the final straw. This is my Sad girl summer. Having never before suffered from seasonal affective disorder, I have officially lost my joie de vivre. And I know I’m not alone. Moaning about the weather may be an Olympic sport for the British, but this feels different. During social interactions people seem too listless and despondent to even have a proper whinge. They just shake their heads, sadly, while staring at their shoes. This can’t go on. Can it?
Well, apparently it can, with some predictions saying we will be enduring this autumnal chill until, well, actual autumn. The thought of entering winter without having fully charged up on sunshine fills me with a looming sense of horror. Having grown up in the mountains of north Wales, I have an abnormally high tolerance for rain. I’m basically a bog witch comprised of 60% water and 40% lichen. I can spend days indoors and not get cabin fever. Saying that, wet Welsh weather is partly why I moved south. My dad, who is visiting at the moment, treats London as if it’s the Costa del Sol. Look at everyone eating outdoors, like Spaniards! But though the sun may be shining as I write this, we know the drill by now: it peeks out for just long enough to remind us that it exists, before retreating behind another heavy, grey cloud fecund with rain. Emergency-poncho-clad tourists haunt the streets like plasticky ghosts.
