That’s it, I’m calling it: this is the worst summer ever. Despite the fact we are currently seeing a fleeting glimpse of sun, the weather has been notably dismal. The Met Office says it could be the coldest summer of the past 24 years. Last week, it started raining inside our bedroom as well as outside, and, after days and days of cold and wet weather, that felt like the final straw. This is my Sad girl summer. Having never before suffered from seasonal affective disorder, I have officially lost my joie de vivre. And I know I’m not alone. Moaning about the weather may be an Olympic sport for the British, but this feels different. During social interactions people seem too listless and despondent to even have a proper whinge. They just shake their heads, sadly, while staring at their shoes. This can’t go on. Can it?
Well, apparently it can, with some predictions saying we will be enduring this autumnal chill until, well, actual autumn. The thought of entering winter without having fully charged up on sunshine fills me with a looming sense of horror. Having grown up in the mountains of north Wales, I have an abnormally high tolerance for rain. I’m basically a bog witch comprised of 60% water and 40% lichen. I can spend days indoors and not get cabin fever. Saying that, wet Welsh weather is partly why I moved south. My dad, who is visiting at the moment, treats London as if it’s the Costa del Sol. Look at everyone eating outdoors, like Spaniards! But though the sun may be shining as I write this, we know the drill by now: it peeks out for just long enough to remind us that it exists, before retreating behind another heavy, grey cloud fecund with rain. Emergency-poncho-clad tourists haunt the streets like plasticky ghosts.
I know that acceptance is the path to healing, but I just can’t stop looking out of the window and thinking about the summer that I am missing out on. The ice-creams and picnics in the park with my two-year-old son; the sunbathing and swimming on the heath; rose and courgette flowers on restaurant terraces. It simply isn’t fair, on me personally but more importantly, on all the kids. When you’re a child, your life is marked by a succession of summers. Those endless, warm days of freedom, leisure and adventure, of staying up late when it’s still light.
My husband has always said that a warm British summer is preferable to any other summer in the world, and I used to scoff at him, but now I see what he means. There’s something just so right about it: the green where the countryside meets the coast, the blue of sea and sky, the teeming and buzzing of hedgerows. Bike rides and cricket and strawberries and sandwiches conjuring Blyton-esque day trips, a pastoral fantasy, a Brexiter’s dream. Though based on false nostalgia, I’ll take it. I’ll take it all. The school holidays haven’t even started yet but it already feels as though the nights are drawing in; soon it will all be stationery purchases and the crunch of leaves underfoot.
It’s all apparently, because of the jet stream. Can I just say that I HATE the jet stream? Sod the jet stream. I shake my fist at it, as it parps there, five to seven miles above our heads, mocking us. I am a midsummer baby and I love summer, even if summer hasn’t always loved me. But after these past months, I promise that I will never whinge about the heat again, no matter how obnoxious it becomes. Lay it on me, I can cope. Even if I have to sit indoors with all the curtains closed as I alternately mop down my cat and my son with damp flannels from the fridge, I will not complain. I will simply put another ice cube in my bra, declare the weather “scorchio!” and crack on.
Of course, looming behind all this seasonal depression is the constant, existential threat of the climate emergency, despite what deniers will tell you. Perhaps even more annoying than the weather are people who say: “Global warming, is it?” as they shiver in their T-shirts. In fact, doing so should see you sentenced to a year of geography GCSE classes. The heating of the planet could mean that summers like this are the norm now. What a cheering thought.
I suppose it’s important to instil the reader with some hope, lest she entirely lose the will to live. So here goes: I typed “when will the weather get better?” into Google and discovered that today’s heat might stick around … maybe? For a bit?
There you go. That’s the best I can do.
Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a Guardian columnist and author
