We talk about the weather. The English and Melburnians especially. We talk about how there’s just so much of it. How weird and changeable it is. How in this city you need a jumper and sunscreen and an umbrella to leave the house. We joke about that, when we talk about the weather.

Last year in California, I was still sunburned from lunch in Santa Barbara when our car ground to a halt in the snow of a Yosemite mountainside. Last summer my pale skin burned on my walk to the supermarket.

We talk about how hot it’s been lately, as across the world soaring temperatures take lives.

Last week in the city I struggled with my umbrella as the wind whipped across the bridge. It flipped inside out, it buckled, it broke. The gutters gushed with dirty water as I stepped from the curb and it flowed over my ankles, into my shoes.

We talk about how much its been raining lately, as across the world two hurricanes devastate in quick succession.

Most nights I huddle round my heater and wonder if summer will ever come. I wrap a blanket around me. I draw the curtains to stop the heat escaping. I dread my electricity bill in the way you dread something you know you can pay but don’t want to.

At lunch we talk about privilege. About who has the right to complain. About who has the right to be upset. We talk about our jobs and our selves and our politics. And about just how cold it’s been lately.

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A version of this post was sent by email on the 17th September 2017 as part of Internet Care Package.

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