western wind when wilt thou blow

the small rain down can rain
christ, that my love were in my arms
and i in my bed again

anon., 16th century, reading anthropology texts in bed totally doesn't count

Winter has arrived in London, suddenly and surprisingly.  Just last weekend, the streets were friendly -- cool breezes swirled bronze-colored leaves along the pavement, the occasional mild drizzle passed briefly by, all was autumnal and with a bit of mulled wine, rather cheery.  But we rolled out of bed on Monday to face a dreary land.   The thermometers resided ten degrees colder (20 for us heathen fahrenheitists).   The evening's dismally early darkening was made far worse by soaked streets and sad leaves in the gutter, rotting rather than scattering along.   Days later, the cold and damp continues unabated, and glancing out the window makes me shudder

Cold in the morning, cold in the night, and even in midday, a wind that puts the lie to the weather reports (how can they call this 10 C, when I need a hat and two scarves? and at night, how can they say it's as high as 5, when I'm so painfully huddled in my winter coat and two sweaters? )

I think we are now witnessing the London that inspired generations of imperialists to leave this great city for warmer climes... I am growing more convinced that not only was the "white man's burden" pure bull, but so were all the other claimed excuses - money, scientific knowledge, proselytizing, political power, bull, bull, bull.  The Brits just wanted some sun to thaw their bones - or failing that, some snow to justify the cold - anything but this soul-numbing, ear-biting, shoe-soaking gloom and gray!