It's something of a stereotypical cliche that when us Brits don't know what to talk about, or have run out of conversation, we always bring up the weather. And so here I am, talking about the weather. It's officially been summer for a while now, but the heat and sunshine arrived a couple of weeks ago, casting everything in that hazy golden light that makes the world appear so still it might as well be a painting. At first it was nice to feel the sun on my skin, but after a few days even self-professed 'summer-people' began to tire of the uphill battle against the lazy heat. Life felt that much slower, like everything was coated in honey and wading through it was so much effort that it was easier to give in to the desire to do nothing. This being Britain, the sunshine eventually broke and we had heavy thundershowers arrive without notice. I don't consider myself to be much of a pluviophile, but I have to admit that the sound of the rain against the windows was a much needed reprise from the still silence of the heat. The world suddenly seemed awake again.
