School doesn’t get out until July 6th. The temperature here hovers in the high 60s, maybe low 70s. The sun makes rare appearances, but we’ve had at least a little bit of rain most days. And I have yet to don a pair of shorts, not even once. Beach weather, this is not.
The term “British Summer” seems to be an oxymoron. It doesn’t feel like summer here.
Living in D.C., you get hot and humid summers, the kind that make me retreat into the air conditioned house and peruse real estate listings in cooler climates. I don’t miss the 90+ degree temps or the 80% humidity that made the air feel thick and heavy.
But it doesn’t feel like summer here, no matter what the calendar says.
I’ll take 68 degrees over 98 degrees every day of the week, every month of the year. But I’d love just one 80-degree day with the sun shining, if only to finally break out a pair of shorts and get some color on my pasty white legs.
I’m holding out hope that when July arrives, some warm and sunny days arrive with it. But I’m definitely not complaining — British summer is vastly better than D.C. summer, and God knows I’ve spent the last decade loudly announcing my hatred for the heat of July and August in D.C.
I just want a tan on my legs.