Mad Dogs and Extroverts Go Out In The Midday Sun

During a hot spell last year, in a surprising (and most welcome) glimmer of validation, a TV weather presenter mentioned that not everyone likes hot weather.

Holy frickin' crap!   

Could we Brits finally be seeing the recognition that not all of us are UV ray masochists, who love to bake ourselves stupid whenever the summer heat arrives?  

This has been a MAJOR source of annoyance to me for as long as I can remember: summertime arrives and people start waxing lyrical about how “gorgeous/glorious/beautiful/etc” the weather is. And the hotter it gets, the more they like it... and it's always bloody extroverts!  

What is it with these people? They seem to actually like being hot and sweaty. Talk about Mad Dogs and Englishmen!    

I should point out to those not familiar with a UK summer, we don't experience the kind of dry heat they enjoy in the Med or California. I've no problem with that – sunshine without humidity - beautiful!  

No, in the UK heat comes with humidity. Nowhere near as much as in the tropics, admittedly, but enough to make things distinctly uncomfortable  - unless you're an extrovert, of course.  

To an extrovert, heat is stimulation, and they're all about stimulation. The sensation of sunshine on the skin seems to trigger something very primal and pleasurable in the extrovert. Even the meagre shafts of pre-summertime sunshine are like manna from heaven to them.    

There's a large public park near where I'm living right now, and there are many days of the year when it's a beautiful place to walk. And yet, save for a handful of dog walkers, it's often near deserted. But come the first rays of spring sunshine (Spring has recently sprung as I write), you'd think it was the goddamn second coming.    

Guaranteed, first sign of El Sol and Joe Public (with squawking brats in tow) will pour out from their winter cocoons to fill the place like a swarm of ants. This of course also brings extra traffic: revving engines, doors slamming, congestion and lines of parked up cars. Which means that if you're a local resident: tough fucking shit.    

What gets me about this whole extrovert summer-heat fetish is this:  If they love it so much why the hell don't they bog off and live in a hot country? I mean, given the way they worship sunshine and bitch about winter, why on earth don't they put their money where their mouths are and emigrate?    

Huge numbers of introverts, I'm sure, would be glad to see the back of them!  

An equally annoying corollary to the extroverts' love of summer is their corresponding disdain for the colder months. Now it's true, during this time, the British weather can get rather shitty.  

Wind (especially the wind), accompanied by rain and cold can get pretty tiresome. That said, unquestionably some of the most beautiful weather arrives in autumn and winter.    

Still, gloomy autumn mornings, shrouded in mist are for me absolutely magical. Likewise, frigid, windless winter mornings with a crisp frost underfoot are a delight.       

And rain. Here's a shocking confession: I like rain! I like watching the rain, and I like being in the rain as long as it's not absolutely pissing down (getting soaked - no thanks). For me (and most introverts, I suspect) rain is one of nature's most treasured gifts.    

It's refreshment for the spirit, calming and renewing. The sound of rain falling on a rooftop or against a window is one of the most peaceful and reassuring of all.    

Rain is also an event, it's something happening, a change of tone, a respite from the monotony of dry, clear days. And I love the way in which it completely changes the aesthetic of a place. The sky darkens (a brief but welcome spell of gloom in summer time) and the outer world is given a wet sheen.    

Best of all, though, I love dark winter evenings. They're a superb opportunity to shut out the world, curl up with a good book or box set and revel in cosiness. And what better time of year to enjoy some gothic classics: Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Dracula, Frankenstein, M.R James ghost stories, Hammer Horror films - glorious!    

That's another thing I love about dark nights: they're a reminder of a vanished England - a pre-industrial land of lonely byways and unspoilt countryside peppered with draughty candle-lit manor houses (not complete of course without a mad wife secreted in the attic :)).   

They also remind me of a bit of my own history. Childhood visits to my grandparents in the Staffordshire countryside at autumn-time were an occasional treat.    

My best friend and I would wander the empty lanes as daylight faded. Returning to my grandparents ancient and tiny cottage, we would sit by the crackling open fire and talk. Then the drive home, with only our car's headlights to illuminate the hedge-lined roads as we drove in the pitch blackness.  

We'd arrive home, have supper, then for me it was bed time (and time to indulge in a spine-chilling classic like W.W Jacobs' The Monkey's Paw).    

Those days are long gone now, and the winter of 2016/17, too, is now a memory: the clocks have been turned back, the evenings are getting lighter and the dreaded 8 weeks of July and August are getting closer (although I can of course follow my own advice and bog off somewhere cooler :)).    

But getting older has its compensations; time speeding up is one of them. I take solace in knowing that September will be here soon enough, and those dark nights will once again be upon us. Bliss.