The Weather

“Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.” – John Ruskin

What a load of rubbish.

Obviously John Ruskin never lived in South Shields where winds blow so hard that little old ladies are bowled over by them and present themselves in tatters to the Emergency Department where I work. They come in with injuries that range from skin abrasions to fractures. That’s right Ruskin, fractures! Winds so strong that just one gust can leave you brushing the knots out of your hair for extended periods and even able-bodied 28-year-olds struggle to remain upright.

And snow, exhilarating? I’ll concede that I was awed by my first experience of falling snow this winter. The trees were pretty, wearing their snow-caps, and the soccer fields covered in white powder had undergone a fascinating transformation; but snow is inconvenient. Public transport becomes chaos. You can’t leave the house at times, and most of all… IT IS SO COLD!!!

“Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative,” said Oscar Wilde, but even though he would condemn my choice of topic, I am going to continue!

I think that people talk about the weather because it really does have consequences for our everyday lives. I’ve realized that more than ever since moving to England. My whole lifestyle has had to change. In Australia I would go – even in winter – and sit outdoors in a piazza with my hot chocolate and a good book to have my relax time. I would take walks through city gardens or duck in and out of quirky stationary shops and book stores.

Here in the freezing cold climes of northern England I often feel house-bound. Every time I venture out for too long I contract a cold or at least a sore throat for the next day or two. I’m just not built for this kind of climate! I am rugged up in my 14 layers of clothes while the Newcastle girls traipse around in short-sleeve tops and impractically sheer stockings at the first sign of a double-digit temperature… The weather is dictating my life and I don’t like it.

I do believe it is well documented that people are generally happier in summer and warmer climates… and it’s got to be true! Now I understand why the English drink so much beer and eat so many potatoes. What else is there to do?

The Man Who Smelled Like Peanuts

I read somewhere that many of Charles Dickens’ peripheral characters were inspired by the odd people he observed on his train travels. Here in England I often think about that when I’m riding the trains and imagine the people around me as characters in a novel. It’s not too hard to do either because trains are always full of eccentric and obnoxious people just begging to be satirised.

At the moment I’m living in South Shields… a small town twenty minutes from Newcastle (the ‘cool’ city of the north). There really isn’t anything very remarkable about South Shields in the winter. It’s cold, bleak and everything closes early. However, it is a coastal town and I’m assured that it’s quite a charming little place in the summer. I can’t say I’m convinced that summers here are a worthwhile affair, but for these guys 24 degrees Celsius is a really big deal, so I smile and nod (I know… I’m an Australian-summer snob).

Apart from all that, the people here are the highlight. They have musical accents that I sometimes can’t understand and they are all SO NICE! From what I can see the north of England is one of the most amicable parts of the world. People are friendly, helpful and open. I love that. It makes my dinky accommodation and unfulfilling job almost worth it.

South Shields is linked to Newcastle by the Metro (Newcastle’s version of the tube). It’s an attempt at modernisation that would have me convinced if it weren’t for the fact that it only runs until about 11:30pm (even on weekends) and the carriages always smell like urine. No I’m not exaggerating; every carriage, every day, smells like urine. I’m not sure what’s going on there…

Anyway, one day last week a different smell wafted through my carriage. A 60-something-year-old gentleman decided to sit himself next to me with his newspaper and his flat cap. As he did, I smelled peanuts. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that (a) there were no actual peanuts in sight; and (b) there truly was a man sitting next to me who smelled like them. I mean REALLY smelled like them. In fact, that day, there may have actually been a giant peanut riding the Metro disguised as a Geordie.

What’s a Geordie? An inhabitant of Newcastle. They’ve all got nicknames up here depending on where they’re from or which politically incorrect category of social hierarchy they fit into.

I don’t know why the peanut man made such an impression on me but for some bizarre reason, he will pop up in my memory whenever I think of Newcastle! I guess maybe I felt a bit like Charles Dickens might have; sniffing this man and deciding to write him into a story as the eccentric do-gooder who baffles his beneficiaries with nonsensical one-liners (while emitting various legume-family odours). And for the first time since I got here, I felt like I was really living in England.

Thanks Dickens…