Slippery Nonsense and Other Atmospheric Crimes

They say the British complain about the weather at least three times a day.

Personally, I consider that an underestimation bordering on slander.

I complain about the weather the way other people hydrate: constantly, instinctively, and with a faint sense of moral duty.

It’s one of my most finely honed talents, practically a calling.

Too hot. Too cold. Too windy. Not windy enough.

The drizzle is rude. The cloud cover is smug. The frost feels judgmental.

Some people complain recreationally. I complain as if the climate owes me money.

Until last Tuesday, I assumed this was harmless.

A personality quirk.

A coping mechanism.

A British pastime with strong instincts for survival and sarcasm.

I only realised the weather had developed a personal vendetta against me the morning my umbrella tried to bite me.

The Umbrella Revolt

To be clear, it wasn’t a mouth or anything.

My umbrella, a device whose sole purpose is loyalty in adversity, snapped shut on my fingers like it had been hired to assassinate me.

I yelped and dropped it. A gust of wind immediately rolled it away down the pavement, with the vindictive enthusiasm of something that had finally handed in its notice.

I glared upward.

“Oh, so THAT’S your mood today,” I said.

A sunbeam appeared briefly to spotlight the discarded umbrella like a fallen soldier in a crime drama.

The sky, in my professional opinion, was smirking.

The Fog With Abandonment Issues

At first, I assumed it was normal fog — the ordinary kind that mists around a field like it’s auditioning for a period drama.

But no.

This fog had… intentions.

It didn’t float around generally.

It didn’t drift vaguely.

It followed me.

A tight, three-foot-wide clump of fog stuck directly behind my shoulder like an anxious intern afraid to ask where the toilets are.

I walked faster.

It drifted faster.

I stopped.

It bumped gently into my back, then hovered there apologetically.

“I don’t do clingy weather,” I informed it.

It oozed closer.

“I mean it,” I hissed. “I can’t even handle clingy people, or even people in the near vicinity.”

The fog quivered with what could only be described as hurt feelings.

By the time I reached Tesco Express, the fog had developed what I can only describe as an attachment style.

It pressed itself against the automatic doors, trying to seep in.

The sensor lights flickered in confusion as the fog repeatedly slammed its non-existent face into the glass.

“Stay,” I told it firmly. “You do not need a meal deal.”

It pulsed sadly.

Inside, the manager eyed me suspiciously.

“Is that… with you?” she asked, nodding at the fog plastered to the glass like it was auditioning to be my emotional support moisture.

“It is NOT,” I said, loudly enough for the fog to hear.

The fog sagged against the pane.

When I left the shop, it perked right up, swirling adoringly around my ankles like a weather-based pet with boundary issues.

“For the last time,” I said, stepping away, “I’m not your mother.”

It followed anyway.

A low rumble rolled across the sky, the kind of exasperated parental sigh clouds make when weather systems adopt a mortal without approval.

“Don’t look at me,” I snapped upward. “YOU made it emotional.”

The fog wrapped around my calf in a clingy, damp hug.

Fantastic.

I had accidentally imprinted on precipitation.

Hail, But Make It Personal

The hail arrived midweek, as if the weather had realised emotional intimidation alone was not enough.

Not normal hail.

Not polite, spherical hail.

Spiky daggers of death hail.

Tiny frozen weapons hammered my hood, my shoulders, my patience.

“REALLY?” I shouted up at the clouds. “THIS FEELS AGGRESSIVE.”

One perfect little ice arrow bounced off my temple, landed in my palm, and slowly melted down my lifeline like it was underlining a point.

“Why do you hate me?” I whispered.

Another hailstone hit me square in the back of the head, which I took as an answer.

The Sunshine That Wouldn’t Leave Me Alone

Sunshine normally avoids me, and I, having the complexion of a Victorian ghost who died of something poetic, have always respected the distance.

But that day?

It trailed after me.

A single golden spotlight illuminating me and only me, across:

- the pavement

- the bus stop

- the bakery aisle (offensive)

- the dentist’s waiting room (illegal in at least three moral frameworks)

A toddler pointed and said, “Mummy, that person’s glowing.”

The sunbeam brightened proudly.

I stepped left; the light stepped left.

I ducked under a tree; it bent itself round the branches like a determined torch.

“Oh, pick a personality,” I snapped. “Either ignore me or stalk me, but you can’t do both in one week.”

The beam warmed my face in what I could only interpret as smug.

The Final Straw

The next afternoon, I was mugged.

I wish that were an exaggeration.

I had just purchased a glorious, steaming carton of chips — golden, salted, perfect, the kind of chips that make you briefly believe in higher powers.

I lifted the first one.

Just one.

And that’s when the gust hit.

A sudden, deliberate blast from underneath, executed with the precision of a weather system that had trained for this moment.

My arm jerked.

The tray flipped, gracefully, insultingly gracefully, a perfect double somersault with a smug little twist at the end.

The chips lifted into the air like a choir ascending to heaven.

And then I noticed them.

The pigeons.

Roughly seventeen of them, though the way they moved in formation suggested some kind of feathery hive mind. They stood in a loose semicircle, staring up with the quiet, reverent hunger of a Roman audience awaiting gladiatorial bloodshed.

The airborne chips began to fall.

A hush fell over the pigeons, the kind usually reserved for royal weddings or bread sightings.

All seventeen pigeons inhaled sharply, in unison.

Then they descended.

It was carnage.

Wings flapped.

Feathers flew.

Two pigeons body-slammed each other mid-air in a fight over a single chip.

One particularly round pigeon executed what could only be described as a tactical combat roll to reach a fallen wedge.

Another perched triumphantly on my shoe, clutching a chip like a trophy, staring at me dead in the eye as if to say:

I am victorious. And you let it happen.

I watched, helpless, chipless, betrayed.

“…Why?” I whispered at the sky. “Why ME?”

A second gust slapped me across the face with the force of a wet towel.

Because it was funny, it seemed to say.

Something inside me cracked.

“THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR!” I shouted upward. “ABSOLUTELY UNCALLED FOR. THEY WERE MINE. THEY WERE HOT. THEY WERE A SYMBOL OF HOPE.”

Thunder rumbled — the kind of rumble someone makes when they’re trying very hard not to laugh.

“Oh, go on then!” I yelled. “ENJOY YOURSELF. RUIN SOMETHING ELSE WHILE YOU’RE AT IT.”

The clouds churned with mischief.

The wind looped around me like a bully who’d found a new hobby.

Below, the pigeons continued their feeding frenzy.

One strutted past with two chips in its beak like a tiny gangster carrying cigars.

Another attempted to fly away but was simply too full, ascending a tragic six inches before giving up entirely.

A third waddled onto my fallen carton, sat on it, and claimed it as property.

The wind rustled through my coat in a way that can only be described as applause.

I stood there, soaked, starving, surrounded by triumphant pigeons and divine mockery.

It was, unquestionably, the final straw.

By the time I got back to my flat, I was furious, and emotionally bereaved over fried potatoes.

Which is why, when a single raindrop fell directly onto my forehead as I unlocked my front door, I snapped.

Personal rain cloud hovering. Of course.

“That’s IT,” I shouted, dropping my keys. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

The rain stopped.

The streetlights flickered.

The wind held its breath.

And then, with the terrible inevitability of a printer deciding to jam during a deadline, a voice spoke behind me.

“Enough,” said the voice.

The Performance Review

The man under my porch light looked like he’d lost an argument with both the wind and a filing cabinet.

His suit was damp. His hair was damp. His expression was the dampest thing about him, the kind that suggested he'd hit the end of his patience around the time Stonehenge was installed.

He flashed a badge.

WEATHER OPERATIONS, DIVINE DIVISION — GOD LEVEL: JUNIOR

He sighed like I'd personally contributed to his downfall.

“Right,” he said. “Which one of your little critiques pushed me over the edge?”

“My what?”

He snapped open a dripping folder.

“You complain constantly,” he said. “And normally I let it go. Truly, I do. I’m a tolerant deity. I once handled an entire century of sailors shouting slurs at headwinds.”

He flipped a page dramatically.

“But you? You are relentless.”

He jabbed a finger at the soggy dossier.

“Tuesday: ‘This drizzle feels personal.’

Wednesday: ‘Who approved this wind?’

Thursday morning: ‘If the sun could stop being smug for TEN MINUTES—’”

He mimicked my voice. Poorly.

I sputtered. “I didn’t mean it literally!”

“Oh, I know,” he snapped. “But the OTHER GODS don’t.”

He slammed the folder shut so hard a tiny thunderclap went off.

“You know what it’s like for me?” he demanded.

“I— no?”

“Of course you don’t!” he said, pacing in a small furious circle. “Do you have ANY idea what it’s like to be the Weather God? DO YOU?”

I shook my head.

“It’s humiliating,” he hissed.

“Everyone else gets something glamorous. War. Love. Death. Fate. Meanwhile I get—”

He waved a hand at the sky.

“Moisture distribution.”

Behind him, a small cloud drooped sympathetically.

“The War God stops by my office once a millennium just to laugh,” he said bitterly.

“The Love Goddess calls me ‘Mister Drippy.’ The Agriculture Gods only speak to me when they want favours. And don’t get me STARTED on the Sea God. Smug tidal bastard.”

He leaned in.

“So when YOU spend your entire mortal existence criticising my work, do you know what that sounds like?”

I shook my head again.

“Like confirmation,” he said grimly. “Confirmation that I am BAD at my job.”

“I never said—”

“You IMPLIED,” he snapped. “Which, in divine terms, is WORSE. Mortals moaning is basically performance feedback.”

“Oh God.”

“I AM A GOD,” he thundered, outraged.

Fair point.

“And do you know what the other gods said at our last Divine Operations Meeting?”

His voice lowered to a wounded whisper.

“They said I couldn’t even keep one mortal happy. ONE.”

He pointed at me like this was entirely my fault.

“And honestly?” he said, voice cracking slightly, “they are not wrong.”

A tiny gust of embarrassed wind swirled at his feet.

Negotiations with Management

We stood there, me in my doorway clutching damp keys, him dripping divine resentment onto the doormat.

“Look,” I said, “I’m sure you’re not actually bad at your job.”

He squinted at me like I’d just suggested hailstones were optional.

“Don’t patronise me,” he said. “Do you know how many storm systems I juggle in a day? How many microclimates? Do you know how often people shout at their weather apps? That all comes to ME.”

He thumped his chest. A faint rumble of thunder echoed the gesture.

“You lot scream at a five-day forecast like it personally wronged your ancestors, and then you come outside and yell at the sky as WELL. It’s like working in customer service when all the customers are unhinged.”

“I didn’t know you could hear that,” I muttered.

He stared.

I cleared my throat.

“So, um. What now? You’ve… told me off. Are you going to smite me? Send a personalised hailstorm? Replace my wardrobe with gym gear?”

He pulled a face.

“Smite you? For complaining?” He snorted. “Please. I’d have to smite an entire country. Besides, HR says I’m ‘too reactive.’”

He adjusted his tie, which made a small squelching sound.

“No,” he said. “We are going to establish… expectations.”

Nothing good has ever followed that sentence.

He snapped his fingers. A clipboard appeared, also damp, with a form titled:

MORTAL/WEATHER SERVICE LEVEL AGREEMENT

(Pilot Scheme – Do Not Copy to Other Regions)

He handed it to me along with a dripping pen.

“Clause One,” he said. “You will limit yourself to three weather complaints per calendar month.”

“Three a month?” I yelped. “That’s not even enough for today.”

“Rollovers permitted,” he said. “But no backdating. I am not recalculating your emotional climate for the past decade.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Clause Two,” he continued, “you will cease attributing malicious intent to specific weather phenomena. Drizzle is not ‘petty.’ Frost is not ‘classist.’ Fog is not ‘cowardly steam.’”

I opened my mouth.

“Do not say ‘humidity is manipulative,’” he warned. “He can hear you.”

The air thickened guiltily around my ankles.

“Clause Three,” he went on, “all rhetorical questions addressed to the sky will be considered non-actionable. No more ‘What else do you want?’ No more ‘Is this the best you can do?’ Lightning interprets those as direct requests. Lightning should not be empowered.”

“That one is fair,” I admitted.

“Clause Four: no demanding ‘proper snow’ and then complaining when it arrives.”

“That happened ONE time.”

“Twice,” he said. “And you called it ‘slippery nonsense.’”

“It was!”

We glared at each other for a moment, rain pattering gently around us like polite applause.

“Fine,” I said at last. “I’ll sign your divine terms and conditions. But I have a condition too.”

He folded his arms. “Go on.”

“You stop taking it so personally,” I said. “My complaining isn’t about you. It’s about… everything else, disguised as rain.”

He frowned.

“That makes no sense,” he said.

“It makes perfect sense,” I said back. “It’s easier to shout at the wind than at, I don’t know, capitalism. Or my own life choices. You’re… safe to blame.”

He blinked a few times, rain dripping off his lashes.

“So you use my entire global system,” he said slowly, “as emotional target practice?”

“…Yes?”

He stared up at the clouds, then back at me, then let out a laugh so short and sharp it startled the nearest lamppost.

“Of course you do,” he muttered. “Of course you do. War gets devotion. Love gets desperation. I get… displaced ennui.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“All right,” he sighed. “Fine. I will… attempt not to interpret every sigh at a grey sky as a personal appraisal of my competence.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” I said. “Well, that and slightly less targeted murderous hail.”

He glanced upward.

The clouds shuffled guiltily.

“We’ll… review hail allocation,” he said.

He held the pen out again.

“Sign?”

I scrawled my name on the soggy line. The ink bled, ran, and then glowed faintly before settling.

The clipboard vanished with a small pop.

Closing Skies

The Weather God straightened up, water dripping from his cuffs.

“Right,” he said. “I have a storm front to untangle over Wales and a heatwave having a panic attack in Spain. Try to complain less. I will try to fail less. Perhaps we’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”

“Lukewarm and overcast?” I suggested.

His mouth twitched.

“That’s my best work,” he said.

He took a step back. His outline blurred, edges unravelling into mist.

“Oh,” he added, half-faded, “and for the record? You were right about the sunshine. She’s terribly smug,” he confided. “Don’t tell her I said so.”

“I knew it.”

Then he was gone.

The porch light steadied.

Rain resumed with what felt, for the first time in days, like a complete lack of agenda.

Weather, After

I stood there a moment longer, listening to the soft hiss of it on the pavement.

No hail.

No personal spotlight.

No fog pressing its emotional issues against the glass.

Just… weather.

A breeze brushed past my cheek, cool and tentative.

“All right,” I said quietly. “Truce.”

It ruffled my hair in what I chose to interpret as apology.

A single raindrop plonked into the middle of the step in front of me, oversized and dramatic, like a final exclamation mark.

I pointed at the sky.

“That does NOT count as a complaint,” I warned it. “I’m just saying.”

The clouds shifted, noncommittal.

I went inside, hung my traitor umbrella up to dry, and put the kettle on.

Outside, the weather carried on with its strange, complicated, overworked little existence.

For once, it didn’t feel like it was all about me.

And for once, I decided not to take it personally.

Progress, apparently, is incremental.