The annual winter weather panic. Mon Dieu, les Anglais.

Despite my sometime attempts to distance myself as some kind of nebulous 'citizen of the world' or 'internationalist,' I guess that deep down we really all are a product of the place that we grow up in. And I'm British. It's snowing outside and I'm going to get excited about it. Okay, okay, so half an inch and a few blizzards isn't something necessarily worth getting all worked up about, but the fact that it's - gasp - December and it vaguely resembles a bad Christmas Card anywhere near to a Church, park or Old Building means that the entire country has been given free reign to wax lyrical, and as I presume we will see by the morning, turn into a state of mass panic. If we get the forecast four inches (eight on high ground), there will be transport closures, offices closed, emergency service shutdowns, blackouts... everything. For some reason major cities like Moscow and Montréal deal regularly with months of feet of the white stuff, but we can't seem to cope with a few hours or a light dusting. Changing from tube to bus at Kings Cross I ambled past assembled masses unable to take the train home, following general cancellations - all this from a little snowfall. I have to admit, as it doesn't directly affect me (yet, at least), I find it all very amusing. And who doesn't like a feeling of occasion? To fall in with the old Christmas song cliché, my feelings are: let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

British Peculiarities, Part 1: Sunshine

Last week we got three whole days of it. The sun was out, the temperatures soared like crazy to... around 60 degrees farenheit. And everyone was happy. Work, cares forgotten. People playing sports, reading, hanging out, picknicking, and talking non-stop about this wonderful pre-summer "heatwave." There were even some crazy poseurs sunbathing. This is Edinburgh, and at the time it was still winter. I love to lay out and fry myself brown, but adding pneumonia to the cancer risk just doesn't add up for me. British people just go crazy in warm weather. Because we get SO LITTLE OF IT. Case in point number 2, after a subsequent week of the usual seasonal grey and wind to add a touch of pathetic fallacy to dissertation hand-in week, followed last night by temperatures of a less-than-balmy -1 celcius (30 F) back home in Leeds and today's sunshine sent my father out into the garden, sans coat, fairly early in the morning to bask. I later made the trip outside, and even with a coat, jumper and tee, I felt reasonably chilly. The sun is strong and warming, yes, but the air is most certainly not. But in Headingley the students (oh, to talk of 'other people' with a collective noun that can be applied to myself) were all out in force in flipflops and board shorts, not a coat to be seen. And it will probably rain most of the year until....well, next year. We'll get a few days of genuinely warm sunshine which will see the parks fill with half-naked bodies (and I shall no doubt throw myself into the madness) and people will complain "Oh, it's so hot, it's too hot..." Is this really what you want, oh Great British Public? Sporadic days of tolerable warmth to revel in in hope of a summer that, if it does come, you will then bemoan?