The local weather report is lately prefaced by so many apologies, and so thoroughly riddled with qualifiers, that it’s tough to tell just what the day’s weather is actually supposed to be.
“Not nearly as nice as it ought to be,” is how the weatherman sheepishly started his routine Sunday. By the end, he was preaching stridently about how things could really be “much, much worse”. The end result, I found, was one of those days where it’s too brisk for a T-shirt, but you’d sweat when wearing a jacket.
I suppose this can’t all be the meteorologist’s fault; things are uneven, recently. It’s like George Lucas was allowed to direct England’s summer — not original-Star-Wars-George-Lucas, but lame-new-trilogy-George-Lucas — giving the viewer only occasional brilliance in a show that’s mostly mediocre, like an hour of warm sunshine glimmering on the Cam amidst grey dross and unremarkable rain showers.
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