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.
Our autumn is just damp summer in disguise.
Sun forecast? That’s a hilarious practical joke.
The rain has a gentle, percussive rhythm.
The ‘chance of precipitation’ is a scientific certainty.
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.
Our rain is a fine, patriotic spray.
The rain has a gentle, percussive rhythm.
A ‘nice day’ is purely relative here.
A ‘clear night’ means you can see the moon’s blur.
Weather so temperate it’s practically room-temperature.