In Praise of London's Bad Weather

The forecast offers a grey cloud, as if that settles the matter. London will be disappointing today.

This is a harsh assessment of a city with so much brick.

Under a flat sky, surfaces become easier to see. Colour stops competing with dramatic shadow. Windows acquire a subdued shine. The red of a bus can be allowed its full absurdity against a restrained street. For a photographer, an overcast afternoon is a change of materials, not an automatic cancellation.

Rain adds another set. A pavement becomes reflective, though rarely in the tidy way a photographer hopes. A puddle contains part of a building, part of a pedestrian and a floating piece of something that would improve the picture by leaving.

The city declines to be polished.

There is also the social choreography of weather. Umbrellas widen personal territory and immediately cause disputes about it. People pause under entrances, look up, calculate distances and commit. A crossing can briefly resemble the start of an event for which nobody has trained.

Being caught in it is less charming than describing it. Wet cuffs remain wet cuffs. The sensible response may be a café rather than a meditation on reflections. Fortunately, a window seat is an entirely respectable way to look at a city.

From inside, the weather becomes visible as movement: water against glass, coats passing close, a succession of people making the same small adjustment before stepping outside. The famous view may be unavailable. A more intimate one has taken its place.

When the rain stops, nothing requires a triumphant return of sunshine. Sometimes the clouds simply lift a little. The pavement stays dark. Traffic continues. A person closes an umbrella and struggles to fasten the strap.

London's weather has not transformed the afternoon into a revelation. It has supplied an afternoon with a particular texture.

That ought to be enough. A city does not owe every visitor the conditions printed on the brochure.