A Very British Rant
I want to have a whinge. Today (Tuesday) I feel cheated by the weather. This morning the news was full of scantily clad people on beaches and talk of record temperatures. The papers were full of headlines such as 'Its a Scorcher!' and it was cloudy here in Glasgow. 'Fair enough' thinks I. 'I'm sure it will improve as the day goes on.'
So, I gets to work, in Edinburgh, home of the World's Largest
Festival of Studenty Nonsense, as this time of year is often called, and it is pleasently cool and a bit misty. Still, the news websites promised me high temperatures, blazing sunshine and possibly a delayed train home due to speed restrictions.
Clever that isn't it, the British Railway System can't be used in the cold, snow on the lines and frozen points, can't be used during the autumn because of leaves affecting the traction and now cannot be used in the height of summer due to the heat causing buckling. I am, as a result, even more impressed with the Victorians who quite clearly specifically designed the railways simply to help the Upper Crust get to Wimbledon Fortnight.
Anyhoo, Wimbledon and its attendant rain and mild weather being over I return you to the point of this rant. I sat inside at my softly glowing monitor all day, occasionally glancing out of the window ready to unleash a stream of invective against the Civil Service, Global Corporations and the annoying bloke in the corner for forcing me to be inside on such a nice day. Only it wasn't. It stayed cloudy until a
good three o'clock!
Finally, however, it did clear and so I left work for my bus with the somewhat confused feeling that I might be able to actually enjoy the best part of the day. But first I had to get home on a train that had quite clearly been stored in an inside pocket of a jacket worn by John Prescott all day and so was extremely hot, and decidedly funny smelling. And over crowded. But I have already whinged about the trains, so 'Lay On MacDuff' as they say in pedantic parts.
As I finally emerge from the train in Glasgow I decide that I might walk home. Not only should the evening be at least pleasant, but there is a match on at Ibrox and I really don't want to get stuck in with those going there on the Underground. So it rains... Hello, hottest day of the year was it not supposed to be? The rain has that air of being the potential forerunner of a nasty thunder storm so I heads back down to the Underground, squeezes myself on and trundles home the last few stops with my head nicely placed right by a Ranger's fan's oxter1.
Next Time: Munchkin tries to find something more calming,
like a two week break to Monrovia.