Fickleness

Our back garden at nine thirty yesterday morning

How fickle the weather is here on the island of Britain. You never know what you are going to get.

This past week is a good example. Last Friday, when I was rambling north of Castleford, I did so in a T-shirt and before setting out I applied sun lotion to my arms, face, neck and scalp. I would have been fine in shorts that day even though I have noted that exposure of my muscular legs  often causes passing women to swoon.

It was like summer that day and so was Sunday when I took those daffodil pictures. However, by Wednesday the main weather source had shifted to the north and there was now a distinct chill in the air. I sang to myself:-

The North wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?

And sure enough as eggs is eggs, winter re-emerged yesterday morning. This was the scene from our back door at eight o'clock:-

And here was Clint tucked up close to our front bay window:-

He shivered and grumbled, "Why didn't you leave me at that nice garage? I was warm there!"

And here are the same daffodils I showed you last Sunday. Poor things:-

Many Britons grumble about the weather on our island but I like its unpredictability, its fickleness. That characteristic seems to reflect the human condition itself - that uncertainty, that sense of jeopardy, taking the rough with the smooth. And of course the extremes of weather are almost never experienced here. We inhabit a temperate zone.