The Great British Weather: A Love-Hate Story Told in Drizzles

Living in the UK has taught me one crucial thing: the word "rain" is not just a noun. It’s a verb, a lifestyle, a national identity, and quite possibly a religion. It rains. It was raining. It had been raining. It shall rain. It rains sideways. It rains in your soul. It's raining cats and dogs. It's spitting. It rains in your kitchen if your roof hasn’t been updated since the Thatcher era. We have 4 seasons in 2 hours.

And yet—umbrellas are a myth here. A fable. British people treat umbrellas like fancy table linens: owned but never used. They walk straight into a storm like waterproof Robocop's, heads down, shoulders up, as if the human body—being 60% water—is somehow immune. Meanwhile, I’m fighting with my one umbrella like it’s a wild animal, flipping inside out, poking strangers in the face, and eventually giving up and just becoming wet for sport.

For twelve months of the year, the seasons do a little performance art piece titled “Greyish.” It’s avant-garde. Bold. Emotionally draining. The sun makes cameo appearances, usually just to mock you. It peeks out like a shy ghost and then disappears before you can find your sunglasses and flip flops. Vitamin D deficiency is the national mood. We’re all a bit tired, slightly depressed, and 80% mucus.

What’s shocking is how seamlessly the months blend into each other. I wear the same jacket, the same sad trainers, and the same damp jeans from January through December. British weather fashion isn’t seasonal—it’s emotional protection. I now own ten jumpers that could double as emotional support animals.

But once in a blue moon… something magical happens.

The sun appears. For two glorious weeks, usually in July or some chaotic moment in late April, temperatures shoot past 25°C and the entire country LOSES ITS MIND. People stop going to work. No one can concentrate. It's as if the Queen herself rose from the dead and declared, “Thou shall tan.” British skin turns lobster-pink within hours. Pharmacies run out of aloe vera and SPF 50. BBQs appear in every park like mushrooms after rain. Supermarkets empty of steaks, sausages, beer, bottled water, mobile aircons, funs and hope.

Outdoor pools experience their one annual moment of glory: full of joyfully screaming children, sunburnt dads, and inflatable flamingos in various states of deflation. Ambulances whizz around town rescuing people who haven’t seen this much UV since 1997. I saw a man passed out from dehydration next to a disposable BBQ in a bin.

Then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the sun leaves. No warning. Just a Tuesday, cold again. Your sun-drenched joy becomes a damp beauty memory.

Winter here is equally petty. Forget your romantic ideas of a white Christmas. That’s a film fantasy. British snow is shy and bitter. It shows up in late January or February when nobody wants it anymore. It falls as 1.5 cm of slush, and the entire country collapses like a chocolate soufflé.

One snowflake hits the ground and schools send emails to parents telling them not to bring their children because they shut down. Banks close. Buses stop running. The news goes full apocalypse mode. People panic-buy milk, biscuits, salt, and waterproof boots.

And don’t even try to understand seasonal timing. Spring arrives in December, Easter is celebrated in thermal leggings, and Santa is more likely to bring sunstroke than presents. You might find yourself planting tulips in November and de-icing your car in May. Climate change? Maybe yes-maybe not, I'm not the expert. But British weather was already chaos before global warming got involved.

And yet—weather here is the ultimate social lubricant. We talk about it constantly. In the shop queue: “Oh, finally a bit of sun!” At work: “Did you see the rain this morning? Biblical.” At the bus stop: “They say it’ll rain only once this week! Monday to Saturday. With a break on Sunday between 3:04 and 3:06 p.m.”

Meanwhile, back in my home country, the weather has done a full Beyoncé transformation. Winter used to mean snow up to your neck and minus 30°C. Now? It's just mud. Grey, sad, shoe-eating mud. Summer is no better— from 20°C suddenly it’s plus 40°C, the sun wants to BBQ you, and storms roll in like two angry dogs meeting on a narrow path. Lightning, hail the size of meatballs, trees falling over like they've given up, roofs flying off like it’s Mary Poppins' origin story.

So wherever you are—Britain, back home, or somewhere in between—just remember: supplement your Vitamin D, keep a raincoat in your bag, and never trust a sunny forecast. It’s probably lying.

And if the weather makes you question your life choices, just know: somewhere, someone else is also wet, mildly cold, slightly sunburnt, and making the exact same small talk about how it’s “unseasonably mild for June.”