I’ve been to rainier places, colder places and windier places, but Britain rules the world in its production of simply bloody disgusting weather. It’s August and I’m sitting out here under my shelter’s roof dressed like a Lovecraftian lumberjack in as many thick black and grey layers as I could find because it’s tipping down and the wind is blowing upstream from some nightmare glacial November. I’m ordering winter clothes online. In August. A Bank Holiday is always a curse, in this country. The weather alert came two days ago, but it’s not like we didn’t know. It’s a Bank Holiday. The weather always waits for it. This is why we always talk about the weather in this country. We know it wants to kill us.