Grey skies, gale-swept beaches, soggy donkeys: my childhood holidays were all wet, wet, wet. And, as a result, deliciously idle
I am enjoying this sodden summer. I do know this much rain is bad: July was the UK’s sixth wettest on record and the wettest ever for Northern Ireland. It is worse than bad in China; it is catastrophic, with 20 killed in the worst rainfall in 140 years, since records began. And in the UK, there is harvest havoc to worry farmers, plus a very real danger that the insular and idiotic will point to a persistently, dramatically wet summer that is probably linked to the climate crisis as the opposite: a sign that everything is fine, really, so let’s celebrate with more North Sea drilling.
I am sorry, too, for anyone who needs a summer fix of vitamin D, light and warmth to maintain their health and equanimity. I am on record as being fairly anti-summer, and that remains true, but I am not implacably opposed to a bit of balmy weather. I don’t want to go all “some of my best friends are balls of incandescent gas” on you, but I am attempting to grow some tomatoes this year and I have a hammock. I wouldn’t say no to some sun now and then.
