Ah, the British weather—a national obsession, conversational crutch, and eternal frenemy. It’s the one thing we can always count on to be completely unreliable.

Take today, for instance. It started with a crisp, promising sunshine that had me briefly considering leaving the house without a coat—rookie mistake. By mid-morning, ominous clouds rolled in, and the heavens opened just as I popped out for a pint of milk. Naturally, I’d forgotten my umbrella, so I arrived home looking like a drowned rat, clutching semi-soggy digestive biscuits.

The weather here isn’t so much a forecast as it is a lottery. One moment, you’re basking in an unexpected heatwave, and the next, you’re shivering in your cardigan while pretending you’re fine because it’s only June. And let’s not forget the infamous “four seasons in a day” phenomenon—a meteorological buffet that keeps you perpetually overdressed, underdressed, or just plain wrong.

Of course, we British don’t complain about the weather so much as we revel in it. We discuss it like art critics analyzing a moody landscape—“bit nippy this morning,” “proper muggy, innit?”—and it binds us together, a shared language of drizzle and disappointment.

And when the sun does decide to grace us with its presence, we lose all sense of proportion. Parks overflow with half-naked bodies, barbecues are lit with reckless abandon, and entire shelves of Pimms vanish as though preparing for rationing. By the time we’ve adjusted to the warmth, the rain’s back to remind us who’s really in charge.

Still, we wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, without the weather, what on earth would we talk about?