Home life
Weather moan
Alice Thomas Ellis
There is something odd about the weather. Perhaps there always is, but recently it's been becoming more obvious and affecting the population more notice- ably. The birds have been busily tweaking twigs off the tree outside the bedroom window when they should still be recover- ing from Christmas, huddled up in the barn with their heads under their wings and waiting for their human neighbours to break the ice on the puddles so they can have a drink.
At least they don't have to bother about what to wear. When it gets nippy they just need to fluff out their feathers a bit, whereas the human neighbours have to apply thought to the problem. I keep seeing ladies doggedly attired in big fur hats and boots because they bought them to be fashionable in a wintry sort of way and that's what they're damn well going to do. Their little faces, which are meant to look pale and flowerlike under their Anna Karenina hats (necks like slender stalks), go all red and sweaty in the unseasonal warmth.
Janet gets up early, looks out at the grey sky, piles on a few sweaters and spends the rest of the day peeling them off like an onion. I got up this morning, contemplated the tweeds, thought 'the hell with it' and put on an Indian cotton. It makes me uneasy. It makes me cross too because one cannot plan where to go any more than what to wear. Beryl and I were about to leave for the country to do some work in peace when the weatherman announced that there was ice and snow down there, and conditions were treacherous. Well, they may be; but it's hard to believe, when the shrubs round here are shaking out their spring apparel and I can walk into the back yard in my nightdress to feed the cats.
I think the weatherman has lost his nerve after failing to predict the hurricane and is determined to hedge his bets. Janet was listening to him the other day and he forecast just about everything — some sun, some showers, frost, snow, thunderstorms and high winds. Apart from an earthquake and temperatures in the eighties that's about it. What is a person to do apart from stay indoors with several changes of attire laid judiciously to hand? There are few things worse than going out to dine in your heavy velvet with people who haven't noticed that spring is a little early this year and have the central heating at full blast. It is worse than dining with Scots who don't have central heating at all. You can always put your coat on or borrow a plaid, while it is not permissible to strip down to your knickers and vest. These unexpected cle- ment but dreary climatic conditions serve to unsettle us and muddle our view of the universe.
Marks and Spencers don't help. I still have three-quarters of a Christmas cake left and they've got hot cross-buns on their shelves, for God's sake. Lent hasn't even started yet. Has it? I'm getting disoriented with the almond blossom tossing about over the road and pictures of David Steel on telly somewhere up north with snow- flakes drifting round him. It gives me the same sort of feeling as going to sleep in the afternoon and waking Up not knowing whether it's morning or midnight. I feel sorry for the dormice. It must be perfectly ghastly to wake from hibernation and not know whether it's December or May and whether you've missed out on the hot cross-buns. We must all give up on the aerosol deodorants before we melt the ice-cap and find ourselves in real trouble.
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