The weather is still not great. These summers are quite cold.
That is why last year we replaced our windows with those expensive double glazed, energy efficient kind. Fantastic. This week I got a call from the contractor who installed them. He moaned that the work has been completed a year ago and I still haven’t paid for them.
“Listen here, my good man,” I said. “Your sales guy sent me an email promising these windows were so efficient they would pay for themselves in a year. It’s been a year so, hey presto, they’re paid for. Bye.” He sounded confused but I am expecting him to call back. Still, I had him going for a while.
Forecasting what the weather is going to do has been poor recently. Forecasters seem to only get it right a day or two in advance. I’ve been taking notes. TV ones often tell us nonsense. Yet no one holds forecasters accountable.
People seem to accept that predicting the weather is not an exact science. Fine, but that gives forecasters carte blanche to say whatever nonsense they like – and nobody complains. Wow.
Why aren’t we getting monthly or even weekly updates on how right or wrong the forecasts have been? Met Office types have tremendous resources. Computerised buoys far out at sea, we are told, are constantly transmitting data to them. Satellites in space take photos of weather patterns. Then there’s my former neighbour Margaret’s rheumatism. She swears she get twinges a week before a heavy downpour. STV’s Sean Batty should have old Maggie on speed dial.
I will excuse the Beeb’s Carol Kirkwood. Two weeks ago she predicted floods in Europe and parts of the UK. There have been awful deluges.
Just hot air, that’s my forecast
Most people would expect better performance than that when when they think about it. You just expect people to do better – like ex-prime ministers. Particularly those ex-prime ministers who pick up about £7 million for texting and emailing government ministers privately to recommend their new paymasters for this, that and goodness knows what else.
There must have been better weather round Loch Ness. How else could Google Maps have accidentally included a photo of a chap without benefit of clobber at the lochside?
Where are the checks and balances that we were told had been introduced when lesser ministers did something similar? What will happen now? Nothing. Just hot air, that’s my forecast.
In the next few days, warm weather will hit Portugal, with temperatures up to 35 or 40C, according to the Portuguese Institute for Sea and Atmosphere. I didn’t make up that name. It says it will then spread north, reaching the UK by August 20. It’ll then be roasting for the rest of the month. Roasting is the Scottish optimist’s term for a heatwave. The pessimistic Scots version is: “It’s nae as cold as usual, hen.”
Meanwhile, our Met Office says it cannot yet forecast the weather for the end of August. Its crystal ball gazing for August 21 to September 4 has found: “Temperatures are likely to be above average with the potential for hotter weather later in August.”
So is the end of this month going to be “above average” or “a heatwave” in the UK? Maggie hasn’t phoned to tell me of twinges either. I think my semmit is coming off soon.
There must have been better weather round Loch Ness. How else could Google Maps have accidentally included a photo of a chap without benefit of clobber at the lochside? I am going to be driving along that selfsame route in the next few days. Nessie is the only monster I want to spot on my travels.
Be aware of all nasty viruses
Now that Covid is receding, we still have to guard against other nasty viruses. I have heard about Kevin who had to go to a certain island surgery the other day. The receptionist asked how she could help him. Kevin said: “I have the shingles.” So she took down his name and address and told him to have a seat in a side room. Fifteen minutes later, another nurse came in and asked Kevin what he had. Kevin said: “Shingles.”
She also wrote down his height and weight. Then she gave Kevin a blood test, a blood pressure test, an electrocardiogram and told him to take off his clothes and wait for the doctor. An hour later the doc came in and found Kevin sitting there without a stitch. He asked cold Kev what he had. He replied: “Shingles.”
The doc examined his clear skin and asked: “Where?” Kevin said: “It’s outside on the lorry. Where do you want me to tip it?”
