#4 Weather? Whatever.

Forecasts, post-casts and transitions 🌪️

Every job, no matter the industry, is dictated by the weather. When I used to write for a children’s fashion magazine, it was all, “Sun’s out buns out! 37 thong bikinis to survive the climate apocalypse” and “Rain doesn’t have to be a pain with these 800 identical macs from Shein”. Train drivers, football managers, caterers, construction workers, ice sculptors, the people who dress as cartoon characters at amusement parks: it’s all weather, weather, weather. As the temperature drops and we delve into the thicker, fluffier recesses of our wardrobes (“Check out these 12 fur coats to wear while you #slay the White Witch of Narnia!”), I ponder forecasts, post-casts and transitions. 

Swaddling Season

Chris was in a bar chatting to a young woman, and Albert just couldn’t wrap his head around it. This was the second time such an anomaly had occurred that night. What could possibly be so enthralling about this bearded, bespectacled six-foot-one Englishman in a cable-knit jumper and tweed jacket propping up the bar of the Chat Noir? Then, it dawned on him: the swaddling. Enveloped in all that wool, these innocent 20-somethings could barely make out his un-sculpted figure. Satisfied with this assessment of the situation, Albert decided to elucidate Chris at the first opportunity.

This is pretty much how the events of that evening were recounted to me. Luckily, as well as being big-boned, Chris and I are thick-skinned. Albert’s comment may have been cruel, but it did provide us with a choice way to describe the awkward sartorial transition from summer to autumn: swaddling season.

🧣🧣🧣🧣🧣🧣🧣🧣

Rating: 8 scarves out of 10.

The Northern Lights

My brother and I were dining out in Copenhagen when he got the alert from his friend: look out for the Northern Lights tonight! Next came the Breaking News push notification – arguably neither breaking nor news, but I’ll save that gripe for another time. I was excited. The elusive Aurora Borealis! I was ready to leap up from the table then and there in search of the best vantage point, abandoning what turned out to be three more courses of an ambitious taster menu. Along with rainbows and heat haze, I consider the Northern Lights to be a glitch in the Matrix and I was excited to finally witness them in person.

George didn’t seem so convinced. Apparently, he’d been stung before – a few months prior, he’d been collateral damage of a polar light-show prank that had got out of hand. Nothing to see here was the general feeling. We took our time finishing up a well-dressed asparagus salad, a tender rabbit ragu, a surprise fish dish and a cheeky second bottle of wine.

On the walk home, we giggled as we overheard some Americans talking animatedly about the Northern Lights, seemingly waiting outside in anticipation. Silly Americans, we agreed, as we tilted our heads towards the pitch-black night sky. But then, for whatever reason, we couldn’t stop staring.

Now, we’ve all seen pictures in the National Geographic and the Instagram grids of smug Icelandic holidaymakers: a bewildering swirl of neon tones illuminating the heavens with the razor-sharp silhouettes of Nordic trees and buildings in the foreground attesting to the earthly setting of these celestial apparitions. What we were scrutinising was a barely perceptible stretch of cloud that lay somewhere between Liquorice and Tar on the Farrow and Ball paint chart. This, surely, could not be it. But something compelled George to view it through the camera of his phone and, sure enough, there it was, in pink and purple tones as nuanced as Monet’s Water Lilies: the Northern Lights. Sort of.

The next day our feeds were full of similarly subtle pictures – all taken on an iPhone. I was suspicious. I literally could not make this thing out with my own eyes, and yet here was Aunt Miriam sharing wonky snaps of Milton Keynes, the sky awash with brat-green brushstrokes. I still hold out hope that one day I will experience this spectacle for myself. But until then, I have decided to stoke a conspiracy that all amateur imagery of Aurora is nothing more than a hard-coded iPhone filter. Forget “pics or it didn’t happen” – I’ll believe it when I see it.

🎆 🎆 🎆

Rating: 3 Auroras out of 10.

A Text from my Bank

The scene was enough to send the average Substack girlie into a frenzy: I was sitting in a Paris bistrot, ostensibly writing an article for a well-known magazine while actually gazing out at the terrace; a jumble of rattan chairs and tables, empty but for one die-hard smoker, all sheltered by a striped awning as rain cascaded down on every side. And then my phone buzzed.

Like all self-respecting adults, my telecommunications are organised into two categories: daily correspondence (Whatsapp messages) and spam (SMS). The vibration signified the latter. Still, like all self-respecting writers, I was in need of a distraction, so I opened it up. It was a text from my bank. It read, “WATCH OUT in Paris! Hard rain in progress.” I glanced back out the window to the torrential downpour. No shit.

Short of my bank balance being stored in loose cash in the basement, I could not understand why LCL had decided to share this information with me. And why begin this service now? Had I not been a loyal (read: too lazy to change accounts) client for over a decade? At a push, this random missive might have been informative had it arrived before the deluge. As it was, I felt like my banker was Karen from Mean Girls. Maybe it’s finally time to switch to a new one.  

📳 📳

Rating: 2 texts out of 10.

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Rec room

FAO freelancers: drown out the inane chit chat at your local cafe with this indispensable white noise generator (via

Sian Meades-Williams

)

P.S. My mum was so buoyed by everyone’s support for her 62 mile walk for charity last month that she completed it 10 days early and just kept going. Thanks everyone who encouraged her!

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Words by Alice Brace. Images by Flora Hibberd.