We’re a nation plagued by weather. And surprised by all of it. We’re all familiar with British Rail’s definition of ‘the wrong kind of snow’ (white, falls from the sky, cold, bit wet…) and particular types of rain (the eskimos have 100 words for snow, even the ones who don’t work for Eskimo Rail; we have 736 words for rain) which cause massive upset to our entire national infrastructure. But heat? HEAT??? That one really throws us. And produces several interesting evolutionary responses. The first being to jump into the car with all the family and head out on massively clogged roads, to the mating grounds and spawning sites of generations of antecedents. Like salmon swimming up the waterfalls, the legions of great unwashed flock to Southend and Brighton, to Lyme Regis and Clacton-upon-Sea. Where they adhere to the ancient, innate rituals. Like never being more than 4 inches in any direction away from another family. 700,000 people on 39 yards of beach. Its a collective thing, much like wilderbeasts in the veldt. Security in numbers. So you start the day nose-to-tail on the A12 or the A36 or whatever, and then, 14 hours later, when you’ve actually arrived AND found somewhere to park, you finally lie on the beach. With your head just touching the overhanging stomach of the 19-stone binkinied ‘babe’ on the adjoining towel. Heaven.

I just won’t do ‘traffic’ on bank holidays. Never. So instead Mel & I went for lunch in a fairly local park. Where they have an allegedly wonderful cafe. And as it was not only a bank holiday but the nicest, sunniest, most beautifully stunning bank holiday everrrrrrr, we figured no-one else would be there and we’d have the place to ourselves. The good news was that we did get a table. There must be 100 tables because its a fucking park so they just bring more tables out. No shortage of space. But, as I stood in the queue to order and pay for lunch, I learned that there was in fact a shortage of food. The owner, lovely if totally stressed-out Israeli dude, told me that not only had his staff been flat out since 8.30 that morning (it was by then about 3pm), but that they’d had to send out for more of virtually everything. So we’re ‘on a break’ so they don’t die. Come back in 15. Grrrrr…

And yet even I, the most impatient man God ever made (and he in fact made me himself), thought: ‘WTF?’ I’m in a gorgeous park, I have shade, I have sun, I’ve just got drinks (which hadn’t run out), just wait. And we did. And lunch was wonderful, eventually, almost dinner really.

I asked the owner if he kind’a, would’a, could’a, should’a, possibly bought more food, knowing, as we all did, that the weekend was to be sunny and hot? That he might be a tad busier than on a normal damp, grey tuesday in Feb? But he doesn’t trust weather forecasts. Hmmm…

Happy back-to-work Tuesday

A xxxx