For those of us who love to complain, going on about the weather is a sure fire way to give everyone a gut's full of your crankiness. The weather here, in Southern Spain, is a grumbler's dream. Let me break it down for you real quick.
Spending a summer here is like camping out on Satan's taint. It's the worst (well, second worst); the sun beats down from about seven am until nine pm, if the temperature isn't above thirty-five at noon you should consider yourself lucky, you never want to do anything except drink cool beer and wallow around, restaraunts try to give you frost bite with their air con, you have to get a job and, to top it all off, the tourists come out to play. Or just generally fuck shit up for everyone. There's no parking spaces, no beach, just umbrellas, the supermarkets get ransacked... From an ecological point of view, the amount of water wasted in this sad, dry little province is astounding.
Then again, don't get me started on winter. Winter is the (actual) worst. And, yes, I know some people think winter is cosy and all that. They're wrong. Winter is cold. Winter is wet. Winter is windy. Winter is chapped lips and dry, bleeding hands, washing that's still damp after two days and about seven hours of light a day, long sleeves getting soggy from hand taps and it being the Arctic outside of the covers. Yes, snow is nice. It would be just great if the sky could get it together enough to snow on us for the first time in eleven years. Sure, jumpers are cute and all, but in winter they take three days and a hair dryer to sort out after one quick wash.
And, of course, I'd love to complain about spring and autumn. Too bad we don't have those here.