The rain finally broke and Britain (read: London) breathed a sigh of relief. There’s an odd love of British people to wax poetic about how much they love sun/snow/rain and then when the heavens grant them that gift...they complain. The complaints spill out of Britons like wingy prayers to no one in particular.  “It’s hot isn’t it?” The questioning inflection requiring no response. “Dunno if I can take this much longer.” Despite the endless social media photos of cocktails, sunglassed smiling group shots, and #sunsoutgunsout. The fashion of British (read: my small area of London) is equally as fascinating as the dichotomy of sun sentiment. Young black men dress as if they’re going for a chilly autumnal hike, clad head to toe in sports branded puffy jackets, polyester tracksuit trousers, hoods up. Obese bald white men take the opposite approach and share the unifrom of cargo shorts, flip-flops, and beer bellies. I’d comment on the women but according to The Economist most of my demographic and age group consider that “sexual harassment”. Indeed, it’s hard not to stare at all the nudity on display when loitering in public parks. Men with rippling abs, women in bikinis, expensive (and, I would assume, very cheap) tattoos on both. I can’t tear my eyes away, revolted by my own leering, I try to seek comfort in sharing my personal compliments to my unwitting victims with my girlfriend. ** #weather #publicdecency #fashion