June- Summer's here and it's the half way point and we're feeling good.

June- Summer's here and it's the half way point and we're feeling good.

It hardly seems possible but London experienced its first summer heatwave of the year. We're half way through June and the blue skies, once immortalised by the Electric Light Orchestra, have stepped up to the plate and are quite the most breathtaking of sights. We all know that the English weather never quite lives up to anybody's expectations because even if we do get a scorcher on any given day during May, June, July or August it always seems to be interspersed with dramatically loud thunderstorms, fierce downpours, blustery winds, hailstones and in some parts of Britain swirling tornadoes followed by the mildest of earth tremors. But hey none of us would have it any other way.

Recently we've got used to, even conditioned to the ups and downs, the peaks and troughs of the English climate. I think I've cracked the code, fathomed the formula. This isn't some futile exercise in guesswork or mind games. In Britain the summer weather comes in a standard pattern of blocks, specific lengths of time and consistent waves. It suddenly occurred to me today that the British summer of 1976 may well come to be viewed as a notable exception to the rule but summer's here and let's bask in its radiance.

Over the weekend we were presented with those amazingly blustery winds that may well have got lost in March and suddenly turned up on our doorstep without any warning. June had no idea of what it was going to get and, out of the blue, furious gusts and gale force winds shook those big old birch and larch trees and then the floating clouds got busy in the sky, first gathering together like well ordered regiments and then darkening quite mysteriously. Then a faint drizzling was normally accompanied by an indecisive rain which then held up briefly before shafts of summer sun tried desperately to break through. It could only be the English weather and never could it be accused of a lack of variety.

But today was unarguably beautiful. There was an impeccable blue in the sky with hovering wisps of cloud. Today reached the soaring heights of the high 70s and it actually felt like a perfect summer's day. Before long the garden lawnmowers, pruning shears, hose, and secateurs will be proudly brandished like some wonderful domestic appliance that sits so proudly in our shed. Then we'll take a fond look at our beautifully manicured grass, clip and cut the roses lovingly, hack away remorselessly at the overgrown weeds, pick up the beetroots and tomatoes and smile at the heavens.

June is the time for those deliciously sweet red British strawberries that remind you of Wimbledon, country fetes, village fairs and street carnivals. June is the half way point of the calendar year and that pivotal turning point when everything looks healthier, feels better and makes you feel good about everything or everybody. Or so the theory goes. Then there were a few tentative drops of rain followed by brooding, moody skies which put a complete dampener on the summer barbecue. At this point we flee indoors, tap our fingers indignantly on the window sill, curse that wretched English summer, put on a box set of Last of the Summer Wine or an action packed American cop show.

 Then we stare dolefully at the rain and the wind, wishing that somewhere out there in the big wide world a heatwave will settle on the British isles for at least three months. According to George Orwell, or so we're led to believe, it always rains in Norway so maybe Britain can take small comfort from the fact it couldn't possibly get any worse. So we take a deep breath, venture forward into the world of the unexpected and hope that the wheatfields will shine, the undulating hills of Yorkshire, Lancashire and the highest of Scottish glens will always be there and the rugged coastlines of Sussex will never lose their silvery sheen. How the British love the ebb and flow of the seasons and there will never be cause for any complaint when English landscapes show off their finest colours.

Here in our peaceful North London suburb of Manor House it may have been just another ordinary working day in June and yet it was much more than that. It was extraordinary because there was something very gratifying about a warm, unbroken day of sunshine where nothing could spoil your day. We know all about the disasters and tragedies that continue to disfigure our society and somehow it's almost impossible to ignore.

 Yet the brighter shades of idyllic summer hover temptingly in the background rather like some distant light show. So we look over the rooftops and think that of course it's good to be alive because if the birds can sing sweetly so can we. Or maybe I'm being a soppy, sentimental soul and the sun may have got to my head. But it has got its hat on and it will be with us for as long as possible. It's time to be positive, idealistic, forward thinking, adventurous, sit on our deckchairs in either rain, sun and snow and just whistle indefinitely until the sun sets and somebody mentions the General Election and Brexit for the 375th time.

It may be an urban myth that the summers were always warmer in the old days and the winters, by contrast, colder than the old days. Perhaps our perceptions of the British weather are almost set in stone. Soon conversations will turn to Wimbledon and the famous tennis fortnight when the British public gets all hot, bothered and patriotic about Andy Murray, unmistakably the greatest tennis player the British isles has ever produced. In fact British tennis has never had it so good and some of the most discerning of English tennis observers think that Murray is so good that if he doesn't win Wimbledon again this year there may have to be a lengthy inquest and morbid noises about the end of the world.

In a couple of weeks time the SW19 London tennis aficionados will be lounging on their well earned Wimbledon seat basking in the knowledge that the state of the British game has never looked in ruder health. Then the umpires will climb that mini Mount Everest that takes them to that lofty seat overlooking Centre Court and its surrounding courts.

 They will tap their microphones, bark out those very genteel and formal introductions while the ball boys and girls will take their positions, put their hands behind their backs most respectfully and a hundred yellow tennis balls will miraculously appear. They will crouch down dutifully at the nets and after those thunderous serves are delivered, will offer the ball rather like some peace offering. They will look slightly sheepish and self conscious because the general consensus is that they aren't the main centre of attention and could be considered as mere water carriers rather than the main participants. as messengers rather than stars of the big occasion.

Truly it does seem to be shaping up to be a good, old fashioned summer. Besides England are the new Under 20 football World Champions, England will give South Africa the cricketing game of their lives and we'll think back to those deeply troubling moments of recent history, pretend they were simply minor setbacks and then decide it wasn't bad after all. It didn't hurt, it wasn't painful at all and we survived the endless flow of words, prepared paragraphs, playground finger pointing, insisting that our political party is far better than yours. And then our thoughts turn to Kensington and we're all at a loss for words.

 At the moment we're all understandably shocked and appalled by recent events but come on everybody let's all run joyously into the sea, embrace a British beach, plonk a handkerchief on our head, lounge on a stripy deckchair and forget about capitalism, socialism, atheism, plagiarism, Marxism, Jeremy Corbyn while not forgetting that mauve and yellow party who call themselves UKIP. We can all just let all it go. It wasn't that serious or critical at all and nobody was either right or wrong about any of this exhaustive agenda of vote, vote, vote, sulk, sulk, sulk, becoming deeply pessimistic and negative, then jumping for joy when we knew the Tories would win anyway even though we now face a hung parliament which sounds a little drastic but Theresa May is still our Prime Minister. And so there.

For those who can't take any more of this blustering and back stabbing, these contrasting and divisive opinion makers, these teeth gnashingly boring orators, the blood and death on our streets. the good news is that summer is here for a while. Sadly that horrific fire which claimed the lives of so many in a Kensington block of flats does leave us with the most horrible of feelings.

But June will carry on and we'll keep doing what we have to do to rationalise, to simplify everything, to clarify the inconsistencies of everyday life and the things that are completely beyond our understanding. Who cares? The English will always have their summer game of cricket, tennis, the varying fortunes of the British and Irish Lions rugby union team and shortly Glastonbury, that great music outdoor gathering of the great and good. This year Glastonbury will not turn into a mudbath and you won't be needing your wellington boots so let's get on down and move with the metronomic rhythms of summer.

 And then we'll drink our refreshing Pimms on English country lawns and the neighbours back garden, cover our faces with a Sunday paper on a sandy English beach, wave a Union Jack and then indulge in that familar ice cream. Life is perfect, life feels very good, life lifts you, energises you, animates you and then makes everything that much better. Sor it's time to forget about the hung Parliament and just suspend your belief. Come on everybody it's summer.