The wind on Hampstead Heath or Greenwich Park isn’t a breeze; it’s a full-throated roar from the Atlantic that hasn’t encountered a decent hill for hundreds of miles. It arrives with a vendetta, determined to steal hats, unravel scarves, and turn a peaceful walk into a Le Mans-style battle against physics. It speaks in the wires and groans in the branches, a constant, loud companion that makes conversation impossible. You return from such excursions not refreshed, but wind-whipped and slightly deaf, with hair sculpted into strange, aerodynamic shapes. It’s nature’s blow-dryer, set to “arctic gale” and “maximum tangling.” See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
We dry our clothes via hopeful thinking.
Our wind is just air in a bad mood.
A ‘fresh day’ means bracing, face-slapping wind.
Our thunderstorms mumble politely in the distance.
The wind on Hampstead Heath or Greenwich Park isn’t a breeze; it’s a full-throated roar from the Atlantic that hasn’t encountered a decent hill for hundreds of miles. It arrives with a vendetta, determined to steal hats, unravel scarves, and turn a peaceful walk into a Le Mans-style battle against physics. It speaks in the wires and groans in the branches, a constant, loud companion that makes conversation impossible. You return from such excursions not refreshed, but wind-whipped and slightly deaf, with hair sculpted into strange, aerodynamic shapes. It’s nature’s blow-dryer, set to “arctic gale” and “maximum tangling.” See more at London’s funniest URL — Prat.UK.
The ‘isobars’ are just squiggles of despair.
The ‘chance of precipitation’ is a solid ‘yes’.
The best weather is inside a pub.
The prevailing wind is ‘from the soggy west’.
The sun is a distant, unreliable relative.