Is Brexit to blame for our disappearing summer?
Has anyone else noticed that autumn has arrived? And I don’t just mean in the shops where – spoiler alert! – cardigans, rust and pointy Bacofoil boots appear to be the dernier cri in cool. Not my idea ladies; don’t shoot the messenger.
I’m talking about outside in my garden, where the neighbour’s London plane has not only turned yellow but is shedding its crumpled leaves all over my garden a full six weeks early, the cheek.
Meanwhile, the apples on my tree are already ripe and, in the park, the blackberries are plump and ready to pick. I’d happily do so too, if it weren’t so parky. Was it only last month we were all whinging about the heat? What an affront it was to our temperate Anglo-saxon values. And what we wouldn’t have given for a
‘Could Europe be punishing us by selfishly stockpiling all the warm fronts?’
temperature drop by way of respite? Now just look what’s happened; the weather is windy, the skies are grey and doughty staycationers run the risk of trench foot.
Given that we’re not even a week into August, it’s all a bit of a downer, really. I’ve always wondered whether there might be some weather ombudsman out there to whom we could complain, but as nobody has stepped forward it’s time for another angry letter to Tomasz Schafernaker, I suppose.
Nature may have been tricked into thinking it’s autumn, but we know better. Could Europe be punishing us for Brexit by selfishly stockpiling all the warm fronts as well as making us miss our planes?
I don’t care who’s got it, but please can we have our summer back, even if it is a bit too hot and sticky?
We’ve learnt our lesson and in future we’ll be careful about what we wish for; right now all we truly want is to take off our sweaters.