About seven years ago, we were having a very, very hot summer. 

I remember it well because I was, annoyingly, not enjoying it.  I was heavily pregnant, and looked like the side of a house, so my usual joy at a heat wave was slightly tempered.  It was so hot in fact, that I made the effort to buy an air conditioning unit for my bedroom, and had to buy the most expensive model in the shop, since all the others were sold out. That summer of seven years ago was the last time it was ever used. 

In Spring last year I remember watching the news, which was all about the odd weather patterns we were having.  The winter had been unusually dry, and the British Geological Survey for 2012 had declared a groundwater drought.  Easter was in early April, and was oddly warm.  There were hosepipe bans across the south east of England.  Journalists the country over were photographed standing by shrunken lakes and dried out water tables, shaking their heads and crying doom.  Experts were explaining that the ground water levels may never recover.

Alas, the British will never learn to keep quiet about the weather, and the rain gods did surely hear us moan.  Because from that moment to this, it has not stopped bloody raining.  Last year was officially declared the second wettest since records began.  I swear on my Great Aunt Gertrude’s grave that it has rained solidly and without mercy or respite for a YEAR.  We have had a YEAR of crappy weather. 

And now the Met Office has released figures that suggest 2013 has had the coldest Spring in thirty years.  Well no shit, Sherlock.  Those of us who are shivering in our winter coats and have yet to turn off the central heating could have told you that for free.  And please don’t write in to remind me that we’ve had one or two sunny bank holidays.  That is hardly adequate compensation – in fact it only makes things worse.  We were briefly reminded what the warmth of the sun feels like on our skin before the clouds darkened and the temperature plummeted.  It’s a scientific fact that babies born after 2005 have webbed hands and are allergic to sunscreen.*

(*This is not absolutely true)  

So here’s the thing.  I’m done with the British weather.  Truly I am.  I was not built to endure this endless grey.  I am a sun worshipper.  A lover of light.  A basker.  I need to catch some rays.  I need to walk through the streets in a t-shirt and not worry about layers.  I need to see skin that is golden and feet that are in sandals and eyes that are tucked behind shades. I am a hot house flower, goddammit, and I can do this no longer.

So I have written a letter, and it is simple, and it goes like this:

“Dear Gulf Stream. 

I have no idea what you think you are playing at, but let’s make this very clear. 
Either you move, or I will.

Regards, Me”