When the sun comes out so do the Londoners to warm their cockles
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Version 0 of 1. A bunch of critters emerged tentatively from their winter burrows on Sunday, all bug-eyed and excited. They gathered in parks and basked in their newfound warmth. It was a delight to behold. Nuts were gathered, but not of the edible variety. It was all to celebrate the sun. The temperature in southern England reached around 18 degrees, and the local humans came out to celebrate in force. So much skin was on show there were hairy, pasty thighs to be seen everywhere. Most Brits I’ve encountered do a good line in being polite, reserved and respectful. But as soon as the sun comes out the desire to get partially nude overwhelms. Some are as quick to get their kit off as footballers when they score a goal. (Which is also a little baffling: do goals make you even hotter than running around and around a field?) It is joyous and slightly hilarious because it still happens when the temperature is not quite hot enough, to be honest. But after two winters here, I’m beginning to understand why. In the depths of winter the days are short so you’re at the pub by 4pm because it’s already dark outside (that, or I’m just lonely). Last winter it was so cold I felt like the hibernating bear in that John Lewis Christmas advert (let’s not think about the fact that the poor beast was rudely woken mid-slumber by the rabbit who selfishly wanted a gift, without acknowledging that the bear would have to do some serious pushing to evict the tappen he’d formed in his gut to prevent any “accidents” while sleeping, before he could possibly head out and about again and be socially fabulous). That winter I disappeared for months, suctioned myself to the blow heater and developed an addiction to watching Coronation Street. Once the sun comes out it’s like there’s a mass celebration marked by indecent exposure. Sometimes people even get down to only their underwear. Not special sunbathing attire or anything. Just undies. In a park. Maybe near their work. This freaked me out at first but is, I have learnt, apparently perfectly normal behaviour. Also, if it’s midweek and the weather gods are shining, you might be lucky to see real estate agents on their lunch break, walking the High Street, tucking into a Subway foot-long, while wearing only their work trouser pants and shiny dress shoes. With no top on. It is unsettling to see a shirtless man in shiny business slacks on the phone demanding top dollar for a bedsit in Finsbury Park. Until I lived in London, most mass public stripping I’ve witnessed was mainly at the beach. Bondi comes to mind. There, everyone is crammed in and the shorts are so short on some of the gents you need to be very careful to not look sideways while lying down for fear of seeing things that resemble a quail’s egg encased in chicken skin. But Bondi beach is a place for showing off, where beautiful bodies congregate mainly so they can instagram pics of each other and themselves with the hashtags #bliss, #bikinibridge, #bodyconfident. I can’t bring myself to swim there ever simply because those people scare the absolute shite out of me. But here in the UK you don’t have to have the hottest body in town to get among it. Nor be anywhere near water. My fave so far has been the 70-ish-year-old bloke in a church garden grunting away lifting weights wearing only his budgie smugglers, and then taking a breather by lying down and spreading his legs to do some tanning. No one blinked an eye. It’s not exhibitionism around here, it’s just a thing. And it’s marvellous. Watching everyone peel off and unveil his or her skin to the sun is like London’s first human blossom burst. It’s a wonderful thing, but maybe just hold off on stripping down to your undies, you lot. Call me a prude, but I reckon the inner-thigh tanning could be saved for the beach. Unless it’s Easter and eggs are on the menu. |