A weird and unfamiliar thing is happening to me.
In my 40 years in Scotland, I think it may have happened a few times but I can’t be certain. If it did, it was only for a day or two and it caused me to hide like a terrified meerkat, peering out and muttering to myself in superstition. This thing is called “summer.”
Yes, I know Scottish people tend to exaggerate about how bad their weather is. In particular, it always annoyed me that the entire country would be lumped I with the west of Scotland, where it rains a lot more, and described as dreich on the TV. Usually, it’s not nearly so bad in Dundee or Perth, for example. But it’s also undeniable that the Scottish summer does tend to bring disappointment. It’s hard to plan for fun when you can’t predict the weather.
Well, here we are in Canada and, bizarrely, we have the opposite problem. It is hot. It is very, very hot. It is so hot that we can barely breathe, and even the people who have lived here all their lives are talking about little else. On Monday, while I was out doing photography for a newspaper, it was 30 degrees and, thanks to the crippling humidity, it felt like 38. Yes, I had a shirt and trousers on for work. Yes, I was suffering. I was bilin’.
I’m conscious, however, that I’m showing a very Scottish trait here: complaining. We do love to moan about pretty much everything. While that’s very helpful for generating newspaper copy one rainy summer’s day, it does make me feel ashamed. If I’m not complaining about the rain I’m complaining about the not-rain – I believe they call it “the Sun”. One or two Scottish people have gently admonished us on Facebook for it. It must be tempting to tell me to shut my stupid, moaning, bright red, sweaty face.
But it really is tough. The sun is so hot and unrelenting. I’m dashing from place to place, seeking the relief of air conditioning. I’m drinking gallons and gallons of water. To make matters worse, I somehow managed to end up with a cold over the last week. I was propped up like the elephant man for most of an afternoon, being very miserable. Ochone, ochone.
This is just the beginning. The summer has officially started and we have weeks of this to go. This weekend is the Canada Day weekend, the celebration of this country’s nationhood, and from here it’s all downhill – with plenty of sunny weather – to Labour Day at the start of September. The solution, as with all of an immigrant’s problems, is to do as others do in your new country. We’re off to the beach. Somebody pass me a beer.
I suspect that anyone still reading this in Scotland, with barely-contained rage at the fact I clearly don’t know I’m born, needs a little comfort right now. Well, console yourself with this: winter is coming. Canadian winter.
Uh-oh.