Summer dress code

In which offices insist on cooking men’s legs for ‘decency’.

The office thermostat has currently been set to Fuerteventura, or the winter air-con settings have been turned on at work. I think this is an acclimatization exercise so it doesn’t feel so warm when I get outside in the sub-30c heat. The other option we seem to have is artic, so I have to pack warmer clothes and a pair of mittens to be able to use my computer.

At the moment though it is too hot, it is either due to the multitude of screens I now have (and would like to keep), the wall that is painted the same colour as the sun or the fact I have to dress in long trousers whilst the fairer sex flounce around in flimsy materials. The worst part about this is that, just like all office scenarios, they complain it is too cold and want the heating turned up. Do they not know that us men are warm blooded? We are too hot when skinny dipping in the methane pools on Titan?

I once got in trouble with my manager from the unnamed opticians for wearing the same type of clothes on a dress down day as most of the females did on a normal business day, apparently men do not get a summer dress code. Why did my uncovered toes suddenly become a health and safety issue when others stumble around on a daily basis in heels? I do wash them.

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Summer is coming

In which a slight increase in temperature is cause for mass hysteria.

It’s getting fairly mild in here which means that the British summer has started to arrive. For anybody from these isles complaining about the poor weather we have had this year it is invariably met with the comment “ooh, it’s too hot”.

Important cultural fact about the British, we are basically Goldilocks with the exception we never find anything that is just right. During the long winter my house has been an ice box, requiring the central heating to be on full blast, but the first time that the sun comes out it has converted from a freezer into an oven.

It taunts us like a Frenchman does an English knigit, when I get home it feels nicely cool and refreshing. As soon as that door closes then it whacks itself straight up to gas mark 10 and proceeds to slow roast the household.

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The English summer

In which rain and shine co-exist on any given day.

Queues and the weather, this is the enduring myth that this is all the English talk about. Of course this is utter nonsense, we very rarely talk about queues. We just stand in line silently seething when we see anyone unable to follow queuing etiquette and once in a while grumble that the other line is moving ever so slightly faster.

When it comes to weather it is a different story. We are obsessed. Is it going to rain, it looks like rain, they said it was going to rain. Summer is prefaced with weeks complaining its too cold and as soon as the mercury starts to rise it is met with a chorus of its to hot.

This week summer has finally arrived on these shores which means men walk around with no shirts on and we all try to find a beer garden to decamp to. The most important part is that we all must grouch about it being too warm to do anything.

Being confronted by this nationwide vitriol to the increased heat Mrs G made a fatal error, as a foreigner she mentioned that this isn’t hot you should try New York in the summertime.

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Dealing with the British weather

In which Jon Snow knows nothing.

It’s hard work in the morning, it’s dark and cold outside but inside it’s dark and warm. This does not make it easy to get up and out from under the duvet, so it becomes harder and tougher to wake up in the morning. It’s not just me that is affected either.

The Feliciraptor is also struggling with the lack of sunlight in the morning. I will go in to wake her up and even though she is two she acts like a teenager and just rolls over. Rolls over in that “go away I am refusing to get up” way, and accompanies it with cries of “back to bed” when I pick her out of the cot.

Winters in the UK are not fun and I’m still never prepared for them even though I know it’s been coming.
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The British rain

In which I get comfy to listen to the rain outside.

It is that time of the year when the greyness of the British climate really hits the New Yorker in my life hard. For the past few days we have been surrounded in a thick fog that seems to clear to allow the drizzle in.

Light drizzle is the Schrodinger’s cat of weather, you both need and don’t need an umbrella and as soon as you make your choice you’ll decide it was the wrong one. If it is going to rain I would prefer it to pour. I want a torrent of water cascading from the skies, it should be drumming on the windows, and most importantly I should be inside.

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It’s not getting hot in here

In which I start to turn the heat up

The weather in the UK is starting to turn and it is beginning to feel autumnal. Leaves are changing colour and back at the Castle Sum we are having that most awkward and divisive of conversations.

When are we going to start having the heating on.

It’s October so the date criteria has been met (it cannot go on any earlier) but is it just chilly or is it properly cold. Once the thermostat is set then that’s it until spring, so judging the right time is vital. For Mrs G that time is now.

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How hot can an office be?

In which the air-con wars begin.

The current hot topic of the office is the temperature. Not the fact that Summer seems to be trying to get a foothold here in England (and being as successful as Esperanto) and the mercury is rising slowly from cold to mild, but that we are now working at an ambient temperature of the Mediterranean. In fact here are the places on Earth that are currently hotter than the desk I’m sitting at:

Hot places on Earth

We are still waiting to break through the magical 26c barrier (or for my non-metric readers 78.8f) as the feeling is that it will be some watershed moment like when petrol (gasoline) passed the 99.9p per litre (errr…some dollars per gallon) level. Yet as we sit here boiling in our skins is there a limit to what temperature we can be made to work at?

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The snowpocalypse is upo…it’s gone

In which a light dusting brings a country to its knees.

We’ve officially had our first failed Snowpocalypse of the year, the whole of the UK was warned about the impeding doom from some cold water in the sky and it sends everyone into a tizzy. We start to panic at the mere mention of a flutter, and start to prepare our exit plans from work.

One flake is enough to send the shivers through an office, murmurs and rumours of “did they send us home last time” spread and settle more heavily than the frozen precipitation. We have had some light snow and it is the end of civilization. Needless to say the country’s reaction is the same as it is every year.

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