I Live In The Wrong City
Then I typed in ‘Summer in Barcelona’ and got this.
Last year, I took the cover off the barbecue twice, but wasn’t fast enough to beat the rain. Summer in London lasts for six weeks. The kind of weather we’d call summer lasts in Southern Europe for about nine months. Liverpool is approximately the same latitude as Sweden, for God’s sake, and look how miserable the Swedes are.
Today in London it’s the most glorious spring morning, and I bounce into my coffee shop in a T-shirt and jeans with my laptop under my arm wishing everyone a cheery hello. What does the barista say? ‘You’re a bit underdressed, aren’t you? It’s going to rain later.’
Maybe I should write a horror story about a fundamentally sunny writer doomed to live at the bottom of a fish tank. The curse and blessing of London is that it forces you to think. They say that in LA you move there full of ideas, fall asleep by a swimming pool and wake up when you’re forty. No danger of that here unless you live in the South West – which is beautiful but harder to reach than Morocco.