As Right As Rain

’Tis the season of mists, mud – and moaning, says Eve Jones, wrestling with yet another inside-out umbrella. But hang on. What about the smell of rain on the hill and those hot baths afterwards…

OH, hello November, you dribbling grey month of misery. You dank, squally period of pre-festive limbo, champion of the inside-out umbrella and the wet-footed squelch. What delights will you be bringing us this year? Doused bonfires? Flooded paddocks? Slithery street corners lubricated with soggy leaf piles to cripple our coccyxes? Oh, you spoil us November, you really do. Still, at least we’ve something to talk about. After all, what better defines true British spirit than the ritual dissection of crappy weather and a thoroughly good moan about it. Hoorah!

I read an essay recently about the British and the weather, which disputed the fact that our obsession is concern about what the weather is actually doing. Rather, it said, we’re using it as a tool for social familiarisation and acceptance. So, “Hello, how are you?” “Dreadful weather.” “Yes, isn’t it?” and so on is really just a safety-blanket exchange to open a conversation. Whatever the reason, we certainly do like to wang on about it.

My mother is a SAD suffering, sun worshipper so particularly hates the greyness of November. We are reminded just how much at the mere turn of the calendar page, when she announces vehemently how much she “HATES NOVEMBER”, as if, somehow, we have organised November and inflicted it upon her. No-one sensible would challenge her ferocity on the matter, which, I suppose, compounds both the notion that November weather is consistently rubbish enough to moan about and that agreement is the safe route to getting on with my mum.