I’m hardly in a place to comment, as I have no expectations or benchmark of a London summer. In the short time I’ve been in the city (since August), I can agree that it did rain, and there were some days I wore a singlet and two jumpers, but I won’t deny that the jolly sun did poke his head out of the shower on a number of occasions, even making me sweat on a few occasions.
But that was summer.
It’s autumn now.
The sun new it and pissed off.
Berries are still in the shops, though the trees are slowing catching on that yellow and orange are the new green.
It feels like a Queensland winter to me.
Stockings, coats and singlets have been making an appearance in my minimalistic wardrobe.
But in all, I’m not too concerned about the weather outside.
I know I can’t control it.
It’s the temperature inside the flat that gives me the shivers.
Water heaters is a foreign word to a Queenslander.
I’m a pro at remote control fan forced heating, but when it comes to turning switches, adjusting timers and managing the boiler, I am a blank page.
Frenchie hasn’t returned since the day he handed over the keys, and no instructions have been left.
So now I sit, on a relatively cool day, wrapped in a blanket waiting for my heat pack to warm in the microwave while watching a video online that I’m hoping will enlighten me in the joys of British heating.
If I fail to write any further posts, you know that I’ve frozen to death in my Clapham apartment.