(In a pub garden with a frazzled landlord on a hot sunny day)
“Sunny days these days – I’ll tell you what that means. Let’s start with bugs … well, look at me. Look at my legs. Insect bites, stings. Oh, and they come with a whole range of severity. Half of them have yet to swell up. They will. And itch like mad.
“But no, let’s not just talk about me. Summer is sticky sun cream. Expensive sun cream. Clothes stained with sun cream.
“Of course summer comes with skin cancer. Dried and wrinkly skin. Sun burn. Peeling skin.
“If you’re really into it you can go on some over-priced holiday somewhere sunny. And buy over-priced holiday tat.
“If you’re not off away somewhere then summer is stuffy trains. Stuffy buses. Stuffy cars. Stuffy offices. Or air-conditioned offices that you have to dress up for so you suffer when it comes to going home.
“Hot weather says hot rooms, flats, houses and most anywhere else. Our housing wasn’t built, isn’t built, for hot weather.
“That means poor sleep. Disturbed sleep. And the dawn chorus of tedious repetitive birds to ruin whatever fitful dozing you do get.
“And so you end up absolutely knackered. Summer – the season of short-tempered days and weeks. Lousy concentration. Dangerously lousy if you’re driving or something, doing anything with lousy concentration because you have to.
“And so it goes on. That’s what summer means for most people. None of that’s rocket science. None of the things I’ve said are rare.
“And what does that all make weather presenters? Sadists! Sadists loving rubbing your nose in it when they tell you they think the weather’s going to be lovely tomorrow. Sadists or utter idiots.”