105. Dingy Weather

I am a November baby, a mid-season Scorpio, and Irish to boot. In Galway everybody has black hair, blue eyes and skin the colour and consistency of tracing paper. There, I am happy, I am among my people. I mention these things as I believe them to be relevant to today's topic: preferring bad weather.

I have never been a fan of proper heat. Poor old Herself, who is a salamander in human form, would dearly love to spend at least a couple of weeks a year lying on a beach in 40 degree heat, but sadly for her she chose me, who'd rather be in Ireland, in the rain. We compromise in Italy, in late September.

But only recently have I had to accept, fully and gracefully, that I actually prefer it when it's dingy. Sun and heat and everything is lovely on holiday, but sitting inside in front of a computer all day every day only feels good when it's grey and miserable outside, and better if it's raining. Fiction feels easier, writing copy isn't a pointless childish way to make a living, I"m glad that I work from home and don't have to go outside. In nice weather I have to draw the blinds in order to see the screen, clothing becomes impossible; the only good thing about it is how nice white wine and beer suddenly taste.

No, it's grey skies for me, please. Preferably half way up a mountain round a lough in Galway, amongst my people, but Charlotte Street will do at a pinch. I look better in Autumn/Winter, I feel better in Autumn/Winter, I understand the point, emotionally and psychologically, of Autumn/Winter. Would I feel differently if I were a July baby? Answers on a postcard, please...

ADDENDUM: OK, I'll admit it. Twenty minutes after I wrote this post, I was nearly drowned in a biblical downpour. I had to take shelter in a Holiday Inn and buy new socks at the gym for fear of trench foot. The timing can only have been somebody's idea of a Little Joke. However, it was exhilarating, and I was going to get wet at the gym anyway.