They say the weather is soon to change. The map on television shows a massive arc of light blue jerking across the Atlantic toward that tiny spot on the map where I live. As an indigineous englishman this can only mean one thing. Prepare to be dampened. That said, we brits tend to ignore such baleful warnings. How can it possibly rain? Look out the window - What a glorious day!

Clearly then the english have a memory span of no more than a few days. Anything longer than that is a little hazy, a difficult nightmare we'd all rather forget in our hedonisitc urge to watch football, get drunk, and wake up beside camels the morning after. I mean, the population of Britain has just spent a fortune on multi-coloured knee-length shorts which are deemed appropriate apparel for summer days.

It's no good, the omens are clear. This morning the clouds lie thick and heavy across the sky, though it is still a tad warm. But then... The weatherman said we should have had light showers last night, and we didn't. I mean, if they're wrong about that, then surely that expanse of blue stuff on the map isn't anything to worry about? How could such nice weather do that to us? This is the Wimbledon season - Since when does it rain at Wimbledon? The tennis authorities would never allow it.

No, it's no good, I have to accept the inevitability of getting wet. It's what being British is about. So I glance around the library at everyone else in their lightweight summer garb and snigger darkly to myself. Because while they're all busy phoning their friends and arranging garden barbeques, they're not watching the news, and therefore don't know what's coming. Heh heh heh....

Bad News

Actually watching the news on television right now is not an especially uplifting experience. Watching the funeral cortege inch forward through Wootton Bassett is of course a recognition of the loss of our servicemen abroad, but that's nothing to cheer about. Job losses, especially in the public sector, are expected to rise inexorably over the next few years as the price of our coalition governments austerity measures hit home. There's no guarantee yet I'll be allowed to live where I am now. I might well face benefit cuts in the near future and with bills rising steadily if not exponentionally, quite how I'll pay them is a matter of optimism.

Now we have some guy claiming that we need to reduce the prison population. That would be nice, I suppose, and cheaper for the public in the long run, but doesn't that ignore the essential points? That prison is intended to punish illegal activity. Okay, rehabilitation has a purpose but you have to wonder how effective it is. The prison population is rising steadily. And with hardship becoming a part of British life in the next few years, the temptation to commit crime isn't going to go away.

Neither is that black lady in the next cubicle. She sat down deeply engrossed in discussing the personal lives of her family on her mobile phone. No, I've had enough. I motion her her to stay silent. It was intended to a polite gesture but being a bolshy lady intent on pursuing her activity whatever the rest of the world thinks, she screwed her face up and made an incredulous statement that she can use her phone where-ever she likes. No, you can't. It's a library.

She sneered and defiantly told me she would use her phone regardless, as if she had some personal right to intrude on everyone else. Okay, then I'll have see the librarian on the helpdesk, who turned out to a hesitant young man clearly qualing at the thought of tackling this afro-carribean Boudicaea. She described me as someone who must have been a snitch at school. That I told her to shush like a dog. That she uses her mobile phone everywhere. That I should tell her to be quiet on the street.

When we part company as either of us finish our business on the PC, will she forget the confrontation, or will she make a snide comment? We will see, and in any case, I really don't want to meet this woman on the street for any reason. She's clearly bad news.