It is raining in the Peak District and the Lake District. It is cold and it is miserable. I have bought a dozen pairs of socks in TK Maxx and eaten decently tender squid in an Italian restaurant. My foot and my mouth. Meanwhile, in London, harassed ministers plot their responses to the sudden crisis of tourism.
Nobody acknowledges the awful truth.
None but the hardy few would, in any case, be venturing out through this frigid murk. We are in denial about our weather. We seem, from mindless habit, to talk of little else. Our forecasters, after the debacle of 1987, are the glummest warners in the world. And yet, as tourism supposedly catches pneumonia in early April, it is the sensible souls who pack their suntan lotion and head for Luton or Stansted who are dubbed deserters in this new battle of Britain.