It’s only March.
It’s only March, and I keep having to remind myself that March is not summer. Even if it is 21c outside.
It’s March, not August.
There’s an old Lancashire adage – ‘Ne’er cast a clout til may is out’ – and though the blackthorn is in bloom, the may flower definitely is not. Nevertheless London has been casting off clouts and clothes with abandon, instantly transforming itself into a capital filled with pasty white bare-legged girls in short shorts. Of course there are also those slightly older, slightly sweltering, slightly confused women in black opaque tights and short sleeves clinging onto cardigans for the sake of practicality (i.e. me).
And then there are those who stoically BELIEVE in March and are therefore still wearing coats.
It’s March, not May.
This can’t be summer, can it? We’re not ready and none of us are prepped. The magazines haven’t run their annual ‘get your body bikini ready’ editorials, our bodies are pale, our legs unwaxed, our toes unpainted, our skin unscrubbed.
The forecast is for rain and cooler 13c temperatures this weekend, something those who are worried about drought will be glad of. Sitting on the roof of our offices getting slightly sunburnt at lunchtime it’s hard to believe the forecast is true.
Until I remind myself – it’s only March.