NS July 29th, 2008

It’s been uncharacteristically warm in England the last few days. Humidity is creeping up and temperatures are soaring (snicker) into the high 70s and low 80s. Every summer when we finally get some really warm days, I always mock the Brits for moaning about how hottttttttt it is and how stiiiiicky (whinge moan whinge). I roll my eyes and think: they don’t know what hot is, the wimps. They don’t know what it’s like to have to open your car door with the corner of your shirt so your hand is not burned and then duck, lest your face be singed by the oven-like heat. They don’t know what 100% humidity feels like, where sweat drips from even your tear ducts and going outside or anywhere that is not air conditioned between 10am and 6pm is pretty much unthinkable.

But then, inevitably, after a few days, I too begin to feel irritated with being hot and having a permanent film of sweat on my brow, neck and the backs of my knees. I begin to yearn for A/C and lie naked in bed glaring at my little fan as it whirs and churns and tries desperately to keep me cool and grant me sleep. I begin taking cold showers twice a day and nodding my head in agreement when a neighbour or sales clerk comments on the heat. I become British. I told you, resistance is futile.

But then I am reminded that I am perhaps still uniquely un-British when things happen like they did last night. A distant rumble of thunder sounded just before 10pm. I cocked my head and listened in silence for a few minutes. There — another one, this time a bit closer. The wind had picked up and I pressed my face against the now-cooler window and sighed with relief. The rain was coming. Hooray! Then I saw a flash in the sky, and another. Lightning! Oh my lovely, precious lightning, how I love you so. So many of my summer childhood memories have thunderstorms at their root and they never cease to make me nostalgic and full of wonder at Mother Nature’s beauty and power. I began opening all the windows, breathing in that thunderstorm smell. That green, electricity-charged, calm-before-the-storm, fresh-as-air-dried-linen, a hard-rain’s-a’-gonna-fall smell.

I ran upstairs and grabbed TNH off the computer and insisted he come outside with me. He laughed and said “My country girl loves her storms.” I am and I do and I gladly acknowledge that. I ran down the stairs with glee. We poured ourselves an iced coffee and turned off all the lights and then sat at the table on the patio outside, open-mouthed faces turned to the sky as we exclaimed at each bolt of light that ripped through the sky and smiled at each rumble. I closed my eyes and let the cool-warm wind caress my bare arms, face and feet. When the first drops came, quite light and gentle, I stayed rooted to the spot. TNH moved indoors but I stayed where I was, grinning like a fool, letting the drops fall on my skin. I only moved in when I began to get really wet and even then, I wanted to stay.

I went to bed with a head full of nostalgia and a bucketful of sweat. Home in my heart and reality in my pores.

• Britishisms , Home and Hearth
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