In Praise of Gray and Drizzle

Whenever I tell people back home I’ve been living in London for the last three months, they inevitably say some version of “I’m so jealous,” to which I respond, “I don’t love it.”

It’s true, I don’t. The fault is, no doubt, mine. To state the obvious, London is one of the world’s great cities. There’s outstanding food, culture, lots of green spaces, an extensive public transportation system, and at any given moment you might see Eddie Redmayne. (I have never seen Eddie Redmayne.) You can make any arguments you wish in favor of this town and I will not dispute them. Yes, London is amazing blah blah blah. So why don’t I love it? No need to expound. I just don’t.

The one knock all people have on London is the weather. After I tell friends I’m not London’s biggest fan, their response is usually to point to the gray skies and drizzle. “No,” I tell them, “That’s the one thing I love.”

I absolutely adore London’s weather. In fact, it is for the weather that I might even consider moving to this blasted city. I love waking up to flat leaden skies, the cool temps, the constant question on everybody’s lips: “Should I bring a sweater?” I love walking out of the flat in August knowing that I will eventually return without ever broken a sweat (unless I’ve descended to the Tube, which they operate at sauna-like temps.) When my wife asks if I’ve put on sunscreen, I am content to reply with a guilt-free, practically insouciant, “I did not.” England holds the climate of my dreams, an endless variation on the theme of “overcast.” It is Bizarro Los Angeles, and it is wonderful.

Pictured: Eddie Redmayne enjoying the London weather.

Yes, a little Vitamin D is lovely now and again, but the sun is best enjoyed as an occasional visitor, not a overbearing menace beating you with gamma rays. I prefer my suns a touch more coquettish. Why must our star be so explicit? Leave something to the imagination, why don’t you?

I’ve never understood people who love the sun. Why do you love being crisped up like a slice of bacon? What is so enjoyable about accumulating lesions?

Why are the sun-worshippers considered normal and people like me, lovers of shade and the long pant, considered odd? I can’t believe we are really so few in number. There must be millions upon millions of us, people who prefer being outdoors with an umbrella tucked under the arm walking to a nearby used bookshop or meeting a friend for a quiet conversation over a pot of tea. We’re not antisocial, we’re not opposed to getting out. Some smart marketer should recognize there’s a vast, untapped market of people like me who just want to be comfortable.

Why don’t nations in cooler climates welcome tourists who appreciate staying out of the sun? “Finland – the land of staying inside and not doing very much.” “Denmark – I think there’s a jigsaw puzzle in the cupboard.”

The dammed sun guilts people into doing uncomfortable activities: dragging sticky children through theme parks, attending music festivals, splashing around -for some reason - in saltwater. The Gods of England are so good at discouraging these sorts of activities that, for the most part, they didn’t even make proper sandy beaches. If you want to spend the day seaside, you have to sit on stones.

To be fair, yes there are sandy beaches in England, but my understanding is that nobody goes to them because, by law, you have to wear bathing costumes from the 1900’s. This discourages wanton sun exposure.

I should probably point out that that last part isn’t true at all. The Brits are as guilty – if not more guilty – of sun worship as anybody else. Maybe they feel so starved for sun most of the year that when summer rolls around, they choose to leave their cozy island home for ridiculous places like Ibiza and Mykonos where they show up at a hotel, insert a spit into their rectums, and spend their holidays roasting. They return red as raspberries. Disgusting. Whereas I have stayed here and retained my delicate porcelain complexion, the very picture of health. Or jaundice, depending on the light.

As the world has burned these last couple months, London has enjoyed one of its coolest summers in recent memory. The Brits constantly complain about it, of course, because they do not know what’s good for them. “Sorry about the weather,” they say when they find out you’re visiting from America. “Not at all,” I say, thinking of all the things which they ought to be apologizing, in particular the bewildering lack of laundry dryers. Yes, yes, all of Europe has somehow evaded news of the invention of dry clothing but it is particularly galling here because it is nearly impossible to line dry in the damp. While I’m at it, the Brits might also apologize for their Dominos Pizza franchises who offer “sweet corn” as a topping option, an option apparently popular enough that there are large photos of corn cobs on the walls of the shops. And, if I’m being particularly catty, they should also take a moment to say sorry for their housing stock which all looks as if it was constructed by chimney sweeps in their off hours. Everything is brick and sooty. I do not mind brick, but I do not care for soot. Would it kill them to throw up a few McMansions just to break things up?

All of that is easily overlooked, though, when waking up in London to another day of murky, clouded skies with a chance of afternoon sprinkle, my only concern being how best to enjoy the unseasonably cool temps. Perhaps I shall throw on a cardigan and stroll Piccadilly Circus. Perhaps, while there, I will spot Eddie Redmayne. Or, perhaps I will stay right where I am now, on the sofa in this squidgy little flat, a light throw across my lap, and write an essay in praise of gray and drizzle.