Talking about the weather
I keep thinking about the heat, talking about it in every Zoom call. But what more is there to say that hasn’t already been said? About this most cloying of universal experiences.
It is too hot. Isn’t it? Too hot by anyone’s standards. And in the UK, primed as we are to deal with cold and rain and grey, insulated up to the hilt, we are not set up for such temperatures. We can but bathe in puddles of our own sweat, growing increasingly uncomfortable and anxious. A podcast suggested that Britain is worse off, bizarrely, because our air pollution levels are comparatively low. That a smog somewhat protects polluted areas from high temperatures.
A couple of weeks ago was even worse. I watched the clock each day, minute by sluggish minute, waiting for the sun to set and the air to cool slightly, and I checked the weather forecast at least 12 times a day. I checked the BBC, the Met Office, and a long-term forecast that mapped out the next month ahead. Sun icon after sun icon. I remembered when we hoped for that icon. But those were the days when we would call 24 degrees for three days in a row a heatwave.
Tempers are frayed. T and I partook in a low level but intense day-long fight. Both glowering if the other had the audacity to ask a question, make a suggestion. You think I should give M pasta for dinner?! Are you mad? I was planning hummus, pitta and falafel and the fact that you’re suggesting otherwise really makes me question what we’re even doing here.
And on, and on.
My hot, under-slept baby is sweaty and getting more so, the more she climbs on me. Our skin rubbing together, creating friction. More heat. She doesn’t understand—she’s grumpy so she wants a cuddle.
We live in darkness. Curtains closed all day. My evening walks round the village, pushing M in her buggy, are on hold. Instead, we put her in a cold bath. Wash her sweaty hair, pour water over her head to rinse it—she makes this hilarious and heartbreaking face when I do it. “That’s cold, mummy!” I get in next to her. It is the best we’ve both felt all day. We play with her little plastic sea creatures.
I feel trapped in the heat. In my life, my house, but also in my body. I appreciate the winter for its possibility—I can warm myself up in all manner of pleasant ways. I can dress myself in thick knits. Cover my body if I am suffering from a touch of the self hatreds.
It is too hot to exercise. Yet I feel the need to more than ever. The clothes I have to wear in this heat show more skin, more body than I feel comfortable with right now. Breastfeeding meant that I could eat as many pieces of toast and mini magnums as I wanted, but I’m barely doing that now, and my jeans feel tight.
Thinking about my daughter, I feel feverish with guilt and worry: what have I done? Bringing this innocent child into this burning world. It is awful to admit that it is only when you experience something so extreme yourself, when it comes knocking on your front door, that you see the full magnitude of it. That is not true for everyone—there are climate campaigners all over the world and have been for many years—but it is my, selfish, experience. Only quite recently has the full dread of climate collapse dawned on me.
For a long time I lived in Edinburgh, and I have been looking longingly at the forecast up there. 20 degrees, 24 tops. Sometimes 18 degrees. Incredible. Down here, despite really liking where I live most of the time, I can’t help but resent the landlocked dystopia of the Home Counties during a severe heatwave. It is pretty round here, but it is wilting.
I’m sorry, this is getting depressing. But I suppose it is depressing—to watch what is happening to the world and not know what to do about it. We bought a portable air conditioner last year, when I was pregnant and even more uncomfortable than I am now, and I use it every night to help with sleep. I am aware that we might be adding to the problem, but while governments and big tech watch the world burn with only dollar signs in their eyes, I don’t think we should force ourselves to suffer more in the name of the tiny individual impact we make. If anything is to change, it’s up to the men in suits.
Yesterday we had a picnic with T’s family to celebrate M turning 1 later this month. We sat under a huge tree, a proper breeze blowing our paper plates all over the place and offering some welcome relief from the sun. It was so lovely. To suddenly be having a little taste of what can be wonderful about the summertime. We’d packed copious drinks and ice into a cool box and we sat on blankets all afternoon, chatting, eating M&S sandwich platters and drinking lemonade and prosecco. How nice, to not be sweating in the dark inside, but outside in the breeze, looking around at this truly beautiful world we must protect.
Well said (written!)