It's a heatwave.

 It's a heatwave.

Historically speaking, the British tend to regard the weather with all the cynicism of those who think every summer is a complete wash out, not really worthy of discussion and yet we do talk about it because it's so intriguing and unpredictable. In fact you could probably spend the whole summer passing judgment on what the public think may be its gloomy moods, miserable narratives, occasional melancholy and then the kind of weather that leaves us breathless, rhapsodic, delighted and overjoyed.

Over the weekend the heatwave that had been confidently predicted arrived just in time for the glut of village fetes, barbecues and trips to the outdoor lidos, swimming pools jammed solid with revellers, children, teenagers and families. They'll be picnicking in some of London's most beautiful parks, lounging languidly on pristine green grass next to delightful beds of roses, chilling out at outside music concerts in their vast masses and then sunning themselves next to soothing rivers where the local duck and swan population just happen to be minding their own business.

The more adventurous among us will be rambling along pathways that meander for ever, jumping over rocks on their way, leaping energetically over tiny, tinkling streams that deliberately make the dulcet tones of summer and then we can hardly believe how ornate the countryside is. We explore caves, climb mini rock faces, stop at quaint tea shops for a pot of glorious tea, scones, butter and jam, pick up postcards and souvenirs and smile happily at charming ornaments. We watch the cornfields and sunflowers in all their rural order and symmetry. It doesn't get any better. 

And yet the weather forecasters have now told us that the heat will be of the roasting kind, sweltering, tropical heat, boiling down on the rooftops of London, the shire counties and melting the roads. Yes folks, some roads on some of our major motorways are beginning to melt but don't panic, please. This is the tarmac and besides our friendly road maintenance men and women have got this completely under control and there's no danger of any national emergency despite the reports from those in the know.

You see the problem is Britain just doesn't make allowances for soaring temperatures or the plummeting centigrade that suddenly hits freezing point and before you know it, thick snow carpets the ground, the snow turns to ice and the gritters come out to remedy the problem. There is a sense here that the country doesn't have any plan B or contingency measures, adequate preparations for the contrasting vagaries of the British climate. It never rains but pours and the British get all grumpy and discontented because it rains relentlessly during the summer. Perhaps we should all emigrate to the Mediterranean since it never rains there.

Then the hot sunshine in the blue sky makes one of its intermittent appearances rather like a retired actor who was fed up with treading the boards but would love nothing better than a popular TV comedy show. At the moment we are in a state of incredulity because we're not sure what'll happen to the rest of the summer. This is totally out of character with the norm in Britain. It's unheard of. Normally it buckets down with rain quite heavily and you're blown off your feet by gusty, gale force winds for what seems an eternity. None of us are remotely surprised or confused. The British weather has a very distinctive theme and is never disappointing.

On reflection you tend to think of both May and June or those months during the year when not a great deal seems to happen. It's either dull, overcast and drizzly before another torrential downpour of rain. Then it just seems to be mild and pleasant for a while. This has been the recurring theme of the British climate. There's room for improvement but the dream scenario would be an incessant heatwave from the beginning of May until the August Bank Holiday which was much the case in 1976 and 2019.

But for the next week or so the balmy and beautiful heatwave has covered the British isles like a warm blanket. Now the chances are that it may remain like this for some time but of course there's no way of telling. You'd be need to a modern day Nostradamus to make head or tail about what next may be in store for us. It would be fairly safe to assume that snow is not on its way from the Alps and you can keep those pullovers in your chest of drawers since they may be surplus to requirements. 

Anyway some of the forecasters are quite happy to put their cards on the table and predict a scorcher that could hit over 100 degrees of heat. Now, this is not a cause for an emergency or crisis that could kill us all in one day. Surely this is scaremongering or over reacting. Besides in Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus and Israel they know exactly what to do themselves. From mid-day the siestas keep tempers under control and why complain about the heat when the rain sends us into a morbid state of grief?

Yesterday though my wonderful family had the most perfect outdoor party with mouth watering plates of egg, cheese and smoke salmon beigels, jugs of Pimms and a handsome variety of crisps. There was much merriment, jollity, mirth and laughter. It was good to be among the people you've always loved and always will. Suddenly the coronavirus had become ancient history and there was optimism  everywhere. How blissful.