THE mood of Michael Morrison, the main character in The Choreography of Ghosts, changes as he moves from Bradford to the warmer climate of the Amalfi coast.
It got me thinking about the British obsession with the weather and I wrote this:
MEMORIES of weather become more exaggerated than perhaps anything else that impacts our lives on a daily basis.
That summer of 1976, for instance, was obviously way hotter than any of the recent ones that are bigged up as the warmest on record. Did those records only begin five years ago or something?
The cold and snowy winters that were the worst (or better if you like that sort of combination) of the past few years were nowhere near that of 1981. Not in my mind, anyway.
The springs and autumns? Well, who remembers them? Some leaves grew on trees and then fell off...
That summer, to me, was one of exhaustion; a long school holiday, a need for cans of fizzy pop after running around kicking a ball or playing cricket for hours, panting in the heat that enveloped the field across the road. The grass was covered with ladybirds and I suffered nosebleeds on an almost daily basis.
We could never think of anything to do to keep out of the sun and, to be fair, when we did, my mum didn’t really want me inside getting under her feet.
The depth of the snow of December 1981 is perhaps exaggerated by recollections surrounding the death of my nan on the 13th of that month.
It had been bitterly cold for days, the thin green school jumpers grown baggy by the winter term, holes around the elbows given rudimentary repairs, offering little protection. Equally, the blue anoraks we all had — snorkels we called them, I guess due to the fake fur-lined hoods pulled so tight we couldn’t see out — and cheap shoes were defenceless against the rising mountain of snow we attempted to trudge through as we were excused from lessons and sent home.
Holidays were the same. The hot one in Bridlington, my grandad and uncle resplendent in handkerchiefs pulled over bald heads to protect them from the sun; the rainy one in the World Cup Final week of 1978. All recollections in some way weather-related.
Then, I suppose, weather is everything — rising extremism from the left or right is described as an ill wind, rockets fired by enemies rain or hail down, cheerful people have sunny dispositions — and as a nation we are often described as obsessed, yet how many of us are really interested?
Plenty it would seem judging by those who check weather forecasts on an hourly basis and change plans because a bit of snow is forecast.
Then again, do — to go for a stereotype — Siberians moan about the snow and ice and the -20 temperatures every day?
“Good morning Lev.”
“No it chuffing isn’t Olga, it’s bloody freezing and I’ve gone over on the ice and ended up on my arse three times already.”
Or do they not react because that’s just how it is? A bit like, on the other extreme, a stereotypical citizen of Darwin in the Northern Territory of Australia might.
“Checked your weather app Sheila? Average temperature here today again.”
“Yeah, the outback’s burning the same as every other god-damn day Bruce.”
Even when we try to stop fussing about the temperature and what’s coming out of the sky, we can’t because there’s a cost of living crisis and your energy bills, along with the heat generated through your radiators, are about to go through the roof.
It’s enough to give you the shivers.