A walk in my neighbourhood the other day reminded me of one of my favourite spring phenomena. Not blossom, or birdsong, but the wild variation in what people consider seasonally appropriate clothing.
I was dressed – in my opinion correctly – for the meteorological conditions (cold, windy, non-negligible threat of rain) in a woolly hat, jumper and padded jacket, a classic Yorkshire springtime combo. But a man heading towards me walking his dog apparently had a wholly different take: he was wearing a singlet, shorts and flip-flops. We glanced at each other in mutual incomprehension, then walked on.
To a lesser extent this happens all year. I remember sweltering in a suffocating Paris heatwave and being aghast at the sight of elderly ladies in thick tights and overcoats; those men who wear shorts 365 days a year seem to exist in their own steamy-legged microclimate. But it’s particularly noticeable between March and May. I’m pretty much always in a coat (or at best, that mythic mid-season jacket everyone has that only really makes sense for five days a year): I like spring sunshine, but I don’t trust it unless I’m swaddled like a patient in a Swiss sanatorium. But all around me are bandeau tops, strappy sundresses and sockless sandals. I’ve even spotted a few bare chests. My younger son is firmly convinced it’s T-shirt weather; my husband lit a fire last night.
We’re all under the same sky, consulting the same weather app, but apparently no one feels the same temperature. It’s a mind-boggling visual reminder of how differently we experience the world. I read recently about the neologism “sonder” – a coinage from the writer John Koenig’s inventive language project, the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, to describe the aching realisation that passing strangers have complex inner lives you’ll never begin to fathom – and it made me think that actually, I do get a hint in springtime. Because I’ll never know much about Mr Singlet and Flip-Flops – his greatest regret, his secret passion, his favourite biscuit – but I know one thing: he thinks it’s much hotter than I do.
• Emma Beddington is a Guardian columnist
