Yesterday for about two hours, rain radars seemed to hint at a ten-mile-wide block of fat, sweaty, hot air sitting over Witney, by any absence of rain on the screen. This block thwarted the congregation of storms which had raged up from the Channel, forcing each of them to pass by either side, or to throw their rain down on the poor souls south of us: in Bampton; in Aston; in the swales and sewers of Kingston Bagpuise.
Here we sat and stewed, until this heavy butterpat of heat that encased us seemed to melt under its own pressure, turning its very self into a nothingness, a mirage; at which point, the rain burst through. Dollops of water fell, each slightly cooler than the last, the whole crowd of them trouncing the dust and banishing, temporarily at least, that oppressive warmth.
For the last few days, expressions of gladness at the continued freakishness of the summer were noticeable in the way they were forced through gritted teeth and accompanied by glassy stares devoid of conviction. The moaning and groaning at our unhappy, moistened lot will I’m sure come later. For now, there is only relief.