Summer

It's raining again, but this is the first time that has happened in weeks.  Mostly, the sky has been clear, the sun has been shining and the temperatures have been in the 90's.  It is definitely summertime. 

I love to hear the Brits complain about the heat the same way I like hearing them complain about the cold.  They are so convinced by their self-propagating myth about how horrible British weather is that they actually seem to believe the mild, temperate weather on this island is at the very edge of human endurance.

I have to say, it is made a bit worse by the absence of air conditioning and central heating but, if those things were really necessary, they'd have them here, wouldn't they?  Sitting in a 2nd floor flat on a sunny afternoon when the temperature outside is in the 90's may be a little stuffy, but it's nothing compared to 102 degrees with 98% humidity and three dozen species of blood sucking insects queuing up for a chance at that tasty spot in the middle of your back where you can't swat them off.

I guess that's why, in the height of summer, American's shut themselves away with their AC.  Here, they simply wear less clothing, which makes summer that much more delightful, especially when the subject is a nubile young thing with golden skin and long, lanky limbs.  When blokes coming home from a construction job clamber aboard the bus wearing cut off jeans and nothing else, however, it tends to be a little less rewarding. 

The Brits (and the Europeans in general) take a more casual view toward the human body and regard the Americans as a bit prudish.  Topless women are routinely featured in newspapers (well, photos of them, anyway; but if they could find a way to fit a real, topless woman in between the pages, just think what that would do for circulation), topless bathing is legal throughout and frontal nudity is shown on TV after 9 PM.  When you consider that these young people grow up with all this nonchalantly exposed skin--rendering it as mysterious and alluring as an algebra exam--it's not such a wonder to see what they're wearing, or, more to the point, what they're not wearing. 

They stroll about so unselfconsciously in skirts that look like wide belts and tops you couldn't make a bar napkin out of . . . . all I can say is, it's a good thing I'm married.  (I know, I know; as if the only thing standing between me and all these young nymphs throwing themselves at me in a sexual frenzy is the fact that I have a wife.  But a man can dream, can't he?) 

Another thing I like about summer in Britain is Pims.  Pims is a refreshing, alcoholic drink that tastes something like a Long Island Iced Tea but without the unfortunate side effects, such as inability to stand upright and waking up beside women who look like Charles Bronson.  It's a perfect drink to sip while you're sitting on your patio with a nice cigar.  In fact, the sun is beginning to shine again, so maybe I'll break out one of my few remaining stogies, make myself a tall glass of Pims and sit out on the balcony to watch the birds.