Commuting and colour

It is definitely Spring today in the UK. It was yesterday too, which given our last three months of near Ice Age existence, is little short of a climatalogical miracle. People joke about Brits flinging off their clothes and making for the icy sea in their bikinis at the first sign of weak sunrays. Me, I'm not one of those. I was out in my jeans and t shirt in the breeze all day yesterday, planting out my spring onions and chard, my tomatoes and peas. I oiled my bike, I sat out with a cup of tea and a book, I went for a cycle on the nearest towpath. No beach for me, I'm not quite that extreme. But when I commute, to judge from the incredulous stares of my fellow sludge-clad, bemuffled commuters, I apparently do the bikini thing with my workwear. By wearing colour. I woke up this morning, looked at the weather forecast (sunny, 15 degrees minimum in London), stuck my nose out of the front door, sniffed, returned to my wardrobe, had a good old think, and reached these conclusions: 1. As a longstanding citizen of London, the first rule of weather is that if it's warm, it's shortlived. Therefore if a summer wardrobe is in existence it's best to take the opportunity and wear some of it now. 2. Commuting to work is unmitigatedly depressing. Best to counteract it with colour. And 3. Sweaty legs are never attractive to anyone. So. Twenty minutes later I sailed out of the house clad in a bright read short sleeved heavy cotton dress, a thick cotton turquoise cardigan, black boots, no tights. Light accessories, black workbag, and an unsightly large black backpack containing my workout gear, my lunch, my laptop and, oh, probably a few other things I have been meaning to discard ever since around 2007. Halfway to the station I am conscious of more than one passing stare from fellow travellers. I check myself. Is my skirt inadvertently tucked into my knickers? Nope, no wardrobe malfunction there. Has the dress shrunk in any way - are my boobs in show? Nope, the dress is demure and, thank goodness, has maintained its shape, as have I, since the last sunny day on record, which was, oh, about a year ago. Well what is it then? I look around me. It dawns on me that everyone waiting at the bus stop is wearing a grey coat, black trousers, a scarf, and one of those hoods with fur on. Hoods with fur on? In 15 degrees? Every. Single. Commuter. Is wearing a coat, a sweater, a scarf and a hood. Some of them even gloves. I get stared at more and more often as I reach the station. Totally intimidated, I board the train and hide myself under my huge bags in a corner of the overheated train. I don't get it. I am experiencing the same weather as every other Londoner, right? I'm not having hot flushes or anything. I know it's early but I can SEE the sunlight streaming in through the train's windows. The woman next to me, muffled up to her nose, is shielding her eyes from it, so I know it's not just me hallucinating. Well then there is only one possible explanation. My fellow commuters are simply not buying it. Come on! They're all thinking. We know it's going to hurl by this evening, the temperature will have plummeted 20 degrees and we will get home to find frost on our succulents! So why invest the energy in swapping clothes over? This overheated sludgy clothing is a protest. We want our predictably awful weather back! And anyone who dares buck the trend with their bright red dresses and their cheerful turquoise cardigans is just ASKING for trouble. That's it. The psyche is at least 3 months behind the climate reality. If this weather sticks, the rash of colour will begin to spread. In the meantime either I join the fray with my M&S brown woolly tights, reserved only for days when I feel genuinely suicidal, and sweat it out. Or, I resign myself to becoming the resident Bridget Jones commuter. Fine. Bridget Jones it is.