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It is very quiet in rural - or even semi rural Shropshire.
This was brought home to me this evening when my sister phoned me from Wem seemingly to ask if we were having a thunder storm in London. We weren't, but apparently they were in Wem. The rain was hammering down, the thunder was crashing and the lightning flashing. More importantly, the humidity was clearing and the temperature falling.
Here in the capital, however, despite a little cloud of the high cirrus variety, the skies remained predominantly blue and heat only barely diminished by the onset of dusk. The humidity was majestically and serenely untouched.
A couple of hours later, while we were watching West Wing on DVD, I noticed evidence of some fat blobs of rain on the open windows of the living room, together with that welcome smell of rain on the breeze (such as it was) blowing in from the High Road. Maybe, speculated I, the thunderstorms have moved south and we will be getting some relief shortly, even if it means Furtle donning the bang hat.
No.
What little rain we had was just enough to anchor the dust to the ground (for which, much thanks, even if it is only temporary). Beyond that it dried very quickly and really only served to boost the local humidity, which of course, we needed because it was still just about possible to breathe without sweating cobs if breathing was the only activity we indulged in. That is no longer an option with our new and more efficient rain-charged humidity; bat an eyelid and a bead of sweat appears; blink and it runs down your forehead. Breathe and you may as well just make like a garden sprinkler.
Anyone who says they enjoy this weather should be taken out and shot: it is arrant nonsense; they lie.
This was brought home to me this evening when my sister phoned me from Wem seemingly to ask if we were having a thunder storm in London. We weren't, but apparently they were in Wem. The rain was hammering down, the thunder was crashing and the lightning flashing. More importantly, the humidity was clearing and the temperature falling.
Here in the capital, however, despite a little cloud of the high cirrus variety, the skies remained predominantly blue and heat only barely diminished by the onset of dusk. The humidity was majestically and serenely untouched.
A couple of hours later, while we were watching West Wing on DVD, I noticed evidence of some fat blobs of rain on the open windows of the living room, together with that welcome smell of rain on the breeze (such as it was) blowing in from the High Road. Maybe, speculated I, the thunderstorms have moved south and we will be getting some relief shortly, even if it means Furtle donning the bang hat.
No.
What little rain we had was just enough to anchor the dust to the ground (for which, much thanks, even if it is only temporary). Beyond that it dried very quickly and really only served to boost the local humidity, which of course, we needed because it was still just about possible to breathe without sweating cobs if breathing was the only activity we indulged in. That is no longer an option with our new and more efficient rain-charged humidity; bat an eyelid and a bead of sweat appears; blink and it runs down your forehead. Breathe and you may as well just make like a garden sprinkler.
Anyone who says they enjoy this weather should be taken out and shot: it is arrant nonsense; they lie.