It doesn’t help that Radio 4’s weather forecasts don’t square with the BBC website’s own, or that it’s never really clear which sweeping tranche of UK Oxford belongs in (Midlands? South? South-East (we get the transmissions)? Greater London?)—perhaps it shouldn’t matter because the UK is so tiny, but it makes enough of an empirical difference to the location-nonspecific, but climatically more detailed, weather forecast to convert the uncertainty in geography into a thorough soaking of my pasty body.
I’m also sick of these dark mornings, incidentally. I can’t tell the weather without flipping up the dust-sheets we still have in place of curtains; I can’t do this without attracting the attention of some several dozen postal employees in the building opposite. As it was, the weather at 7.15am (crucial, crux, crossroads at which point I have to turn left to my bike or right to the bus stop) was whacking at the ground, whereas my bus left the John Radcliffe roundabout in a stroking drizzle and arrived at Abingdon under clear skies that I could happily have had over my head.
… Basically, I’m pissed off.