The local weather report is lately prefaced with so many apologies, and so thoroughly riddled with qualifiers, that it’s sometimes hard to tell just what the day’s weather is actually supposed to be.
“Not nearly as nice as it ought to be,” is how the weatherman sheepishly started his routine Sunday. By the end, he was preaching stridently about how things could really be “much, much worse”. The end result, I found, was one of those days where it’s too brisk for a T-shirt, but you’d sweat when wearing a jacket.
I suppose this can’t all be the meteorologist’s fault; the weather’s just uneven, recently. It’s like George Lucas was chosen to direct England’s summer – not original-Star-Wars-George-Lucas, but bad-new-trilogy-George-Lucas – giving the viewer just a few moments of brilliance in a show mostly mediocre, like an hour of warm sunshine shimmering on the Cam, bracketed by a day full of grey dross and rain showers. But I’ll take it.