The Great British Weather

I can't believe it.  Here we are, at the end of March, and frosty winds assault me daily.  I feel as if I were living somewhere much closer to Antarctica than the map suggests. England, dear England.  Yet again you have disappointed me.  It's not enough for your football team (not soccer, FOOTBALL) to underperform on a regular basis, or for your politicians to woo voters with promises of great things only to turn around and impose illegal wars, tuition fee rises and modern marital rights in place of genuine economic and social advancement.  No, on top of it all, you have to choose to act like the Swiss Alps right now, at the Spring Equinox.  Rule Britannia.  Where is my spring?  Dare I hope for a summer?

We are the undisputed champions of miserable weather.  Not catastrophic weather, mind; earthquakes, typhoons and tsunamis are rarely seen, if at all.  I'm talking about that constant drizzle that can't decide if it's going to turn into rain or not, and takes entire day to make up its mind; the dark, long, cold and miserable nights which begin at 4pm for a sizeable proportion of the year.  Even when the sun decides to shine, it's either to taunt you for a few minutes before it ducks behind those lingering dark clouds, or to blaze with such ferocity that, with the accompanying humidity, you pray ferverently for a return to cooler times.  We British are never satisfied with the weather, and I think the weather knows it.  This must be why it has decided to punish us.  If this keeps up, I'll be moving to Bermuda.  I wish...