It's Friday afternoon and I am sitting in my lounge, looking at the dark grey clouds and the drizzle, the endless, endless drizzle. It's cold and the central heating is switched on. It's mid-summer.
Whenever I think of Britain, it is this depressing scene that comes to mind. When misfortune first brought me to this country, the picture that confronted me was similar to this one. It was cold, grey and unbelievably depressing. The only difference was that it was mid-winter, and there was some snow settled on the ground.
Indeed, whatever season it is in Britain, it looks and feels virtually the same. One can differentiate between "seasons" only by the length of daylight hours, the variation in the average temperature and the leaves on trees. Otherwise, spring, summer, autumn and winter merge seamlessly into one another almost unnoticed, bound together by a grey, sunless sky.
In the cold, dark British autumn, winter and spring, I long for summer, in some forlorn hope that "this" summer would be different and that it would bring with it some sun and wamth. But alas "this" summer is rarely different. In fact, what can pass for a real summer comes to Britain only about once in a decade.
The native Britons are, of course, quite accustomed to their dreary climate. One can surmise from the number of scantily-dressed people in the cold of winter, spring, autumn and summer that the natives are quite indifferent to the seasonlessness of their habitat. On a cold, wet summer day, while I am wrapped up in several layers of clothing, one would find British men in T-shirts and shorts and their womenfolk in tiny miniskirts and ultra-skimpy tops.
Be that as it may, "the weather" inevitably crops up in almost every British conversation, and one only has to see the gloomy, sullen faces when the British grey is particularly grey to understand that it occupies an especially central role in the British psyche. That's why in the spring and summer they flock in their millions to the Mediterranean and other warm places. Sometimes I even wonder whether Britain's depressing climate was the cause of British imperialism: the yearning for a normal habitat with proper seasons driving ruthless, mindless adventurists to steal other peoples' lands.
I no longer look forward to "summer" in Britain. Why be disappointed year after year? Why not look forward to winter instead? At least, one knows what to expect. I also feel that winter is the more appropriate season for Britain, it's long, dark, cold, wet days and nights quite fitting for a super-depressing country that has neither character nor soul.
