An American once asked me why English folk always talk about the weather. I was in California at the time, not missing my homeland one bit, and answered that it was indicative that the bad weather is the best thing about England. Yesterday I was eating a lunch of my own words, when unseasonably the sun put his hat on and came out to play. “Hip-hip-hip-ho-ray!” I exclaimed as I led a chorus line of lawn-mowers rockin’ the suburbs in the B-Flat that signals spring officially sprung.
The American posed an interesting question, and one that responds directly to that asked nationwide yesterday: “Nice out, isn’t it?” Indeed, people were talking about the weather, and they were making the most of it too. Joggers were out in full force, regretting the New Year’s resolution they thought was in vain – “as soon as the weather picks up I’ll start running again”; Telford’s disenfranchised youth sat on the hoods of their souped-up Honda Civics to eat their Happy Meals; and even my sister and I took a walk, slide and swing in the park. I embarrassed myself a little by stopping a pre-teen kid to ask if he was on the TV show, Fat Camp. He wasn’t. But nevertheless, it was a lovely day – perhaps not for the fat kid – and it looks as if it’s warming up to be another.
And would you look at that? In keeping with the English tradition, I’ve just talked about the weather. But it is nice out…
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