Summer in the city (London) is turning out to be a shit quibb this year (I think that's the expression I'm after). This lamentable assessment extends to both the sporting British summer and the prevailing meterological conditions. The weather in London yesterday was okay(ish) for a Wednesday in March. And to top it all, Chris Froome abandoned the Tour after crashing about seventy times in the space of two-hundred yards. Even his legendary phlegm ran dry at the atrocious conditions, and he looked heartily pissed-on-and-off as he leapt headfirst into the back of the womb-like Sky Jag.
The low cloud base last evening led to the inevitable gloomy speculation about the approach of winter in the nothern hemisphere. It's coming, isn't it, the absolute bastard? The evenings are definitely drawing in. The actualité of winter is nothing compared with the anticipation of its arrival, as with most experiences in life. We know this, but the brow can't help but furrow when the summer has been as underwhelming as this one. Even bog-trotters like myself need sunlight. I'm a surface-dwelling mammal after all.
Mrs O and I had decided initially to head to Israel later in the year as it stays hot and sunny there until at least Boxing Day, but the internecine brouhaha there means that that is not now going to happen. I could go, but would have to do so sporting a beak and features. I'm not scared, you understand, just concerned about being shot to ribbons in my prime.
Perhaps I should pop to Oz on me holidays, and get some courage.
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