The wind in London is a personal, spiteful foe. It is not a grand, elemental force; it’s a petty, bureaucratic trickster. Its main joy is creating “umbrella inversion events,” turning your sensible protection inside out with a sudden, precise gust, transforming you into a struggling, nylon cactus. It lies in wait at the corners of tall buildings, ready to snatch documents from your hands and send them dancing down the street in a humiliating chase scene. It specialises in “hair sabotage,” meticulously undoing any styling within five paces of your front door. This isn’t a breeze; it’s a poltergeist with a mean sense of humour, dedicated to minor, daily inconveniences that slowly erode your civility. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The “Feels Like” temperature is the weather’s cruelest lie. The thermometer might say 12°C, which sounds jacket-optional. But the “Feels Like,” factoring in the wind whipping off the river and the 95 humidity, says 7°C, which is scarf-and-gloves territory. It’s a admission that the raw number is a fiction designed to taunt us. It acknowledges the penetrating, cheat-y quality of London cold that bypasses logic and goes straight to the marrow. We have learned to ignore the actual temperature and live by the “Feels Like,” a number that always confirms our deepest suspicion: it is colder and damper than it has any right to be. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
Our hail is like being sprinkled with dippin’ dots.
A ‘gust’ is the wind’s cheeky remark.
The Met Office uses a magic eight-ball.
The sun is a myth for tourists.
Autumn is just summer admitting defeat.
The hail is like being pelted with frozen peas.
The wind in London is a personal, spiteful foe. It is not a grand, elemental force; it’s a petty, bureaucratic trickster. Its main joy is creating “umbrella inversion events,” turning your sensible protection inside out with a sudden, precise gust, transforming you into a struggling, nylon cactus. It lies in wait at the corners of tall buildings, ready to snatch documents from your hands and send them dancing down the street in a humiliating chase scene. It specialises in “hair sabotage,” meticulously undoing any styling within five paces of your front door. This isn’t a breeze; it’s a poltergeist with a mean sense of humour, dedicated to minor, daily inconveniences that slowly erode your civility. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The “Feels Like” temperature is the weather’s cruelest lie. The thermometer might say 12°C, which sounds jacket-optional. But the “Feels Like,” factoring in the wind whipping off the river and the 95 humidity, says 7°C, which is scarf-and-gloves territory. It’s a admission that the raw number is a fiction designed to taunt us. It acknowledges the penetrating, cheat-y quality of London cold that bypasses logic and goes straight to the marrow. We have learned to ignore the actual temperature and live by the “Feels Like,” a number that always confirms our deepest suspicion: it is colder and damper than it has any right to be. See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
A ‘clear day’ is a historical anomaly.
Our winters are long, damp evenings.