Dear readers,
I have been neglecting my duties of late, but you may consider me duly chastised. Today I consider the ultimate British topic of conversation - the weather.
We are now officially into autumn, though you would only occasionally know it from the conditions. It is a season I sometimes like a great deal, and sometimes despise; as two-faced as Janus. Today is a case in point. I strode out to sit and relax in a local bar, peered hopefully at the lightening skies, and threw on a blazer. A few moments after I had left,the rain, fine, aggravating drizzle, started, and I was even more pleased than usual to dive into the bar. Then the sun came out, and all seemed well. Now it's spitting with rain again.
I say all of this not simply as some quotidian reflection on the weather, but because there are profound implications: on clothes, on food and on drink.
Let's take clothes to begin with. Autumn can be a delightful time - out comes the tweed, the cashmere, scarves and coats. There is great satisfaction in pulling on a well-fitting pair of soft leather gloves, or clicking along the road with a tightly-furled umbrella. A crisp autumn street with crackling leaves underfoot and a pale blue sky is a joy. But then come the rains, the leaves turn to mush, the welts of shoes get clogged, or a burst of sudden warmth makes a scarf clammy and uncomfortable. As this can change half a dozen times in a single day, dressing in the morning is climatic Russian roulette.
Then food. Unctuous sausage casseroles, bosky stews and homely roasts make autumn an ideal time. Game is in plentiful supply, and meals can be genuinely "heart-warming". Then comes a grey, drizzly day of indifferent temperature, and it is difficult to think of anything to make the taste buds sing. Summer's table, like summer's lease, has been and gone, but it hardly seems the time to seek the succour of heavy, homely food.
And drink. There are some hardy perennials. A cold, crisp, strong martini will always comfort and caress, no matter what the weather, hot or cold, wet or dry. Just as a crisp cider, however, is blissful on a hot, sunny day, and a rich, spicy red wine is perfect on a cold, flinty evening, there is nothing which really speaks to a flat, blue-grey damp afternoon. Perhaps a good real ale comes closest, representing a truly English season.
So I am not a whole-hearted fan of autumn. I like its good cop but find its bad cop tiresome and depressing. One can only hope for a cold, sharp, clear winter.
