Nobody ever mentions that the weather can make or break your day. But perhaps they should, because it really can. Oasis were wrong about many things. It’s not, for example, possible to walk slowly down the hall faster than a cannonball; souls don’t slide away; and no matter how much you like somebody, you should never describe them as a wonderwall – that’s just stupid.
On the weather front, however, the Gallagher brothers got it right. On hot days, such as the slice of blazing summer we recently experienced where spring was supposed to be, everything in the world is wonderful: the birds sing, people kiss your face all of the time, and frolicking in the park is a daily joy.
On grey and rainy days, however, everything in the world is disgusting and futile, birds choke on their songs and die, people spit on your face, and nobody frolics even a little bit. Bad weather: miserable day. Good weather: happy day. It’s that simple. And living in Cardiff, a city in which rain can quite happily ignore the laws of nature and fall out of a cloudless sky, this presents a real problem.
Talking about the weather is widely considered to be quite dull; small talk used solely to fill the gaps in conversation that open up when people lack the energy to pretend they are interested in each other. But given that my emotional state is now dictated entirely by meteorological activity, I have become an avid aficionado of this most maligned of topics. The quiet proclamation by a friend suggesting that the clouds are going to clear and the sun will be out in full force by the end of the week is enough to get me weeping with joy.
When frequenting nightclubs in the evening, I scan the dancefloor meticulously for any signs that a covert raindance may be in progress. It rarely is, but there’s always one joker at the end of the night, drunk out of his wits, who thinks it’ll be funny to make an appeal to a rain god. As ever, the minority try to spoil things for everyone.
Having lived in Cardiff for almost three years now, I know that unlike the rest of the world, South Wales enjoys only two seasons: nine months of painted grey sky and spitting rain, and three months of glorious sunshine that has got lost on its way to Greece.
We’ve already used up one month of Cardiff’s quota of summer, so every day of sunshine counts. I’m heading out before the gloom descends again.
