The Death of Hope

Staring out at the sheet of low-hanging, dark grey clouds through a rain spattered window, with the rush of wind buffeting the house, I think to myself… this isn’t the first time. And then I think to myself… understatement. It’s not the fact that we’ve endured a seemingly endless stretch of dismal weather that really bothers me though. It’s the fact that I’m finally a believer. After a lifetime of patriotic denial, I now know it’s true. British weather is f@#king terrible.

That might seem like stating the completely obvious to you, but I really did get a little indignant at the stereotype and would lark on about crisp spring mornings and the seven non-contiguous days of proper summer weather in May through July. I realise now I was clinging on to those blue sky days that were few and far between and vastly magnifying them. And all this in spite of probably having complained about the weather every day it was ever poor.

Various compatriots have sought better environments and until now I was never especially envious or inspired to follow suit. While in theory perfectly open to any appealing opportunity to live abroad, it was never an immediate ambition, but now, today, caught in a trance it clicked. Not for any other reason than to enjoy some natural warmth and dryness on a semi-regular basis, I think to a future elsewhere, or failing that, will join the chorus. Bring on climate change.

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