Editorial | Go home Mudgee weather, you’re drunk

In case you’ve spent all your time inside the last few weeks I think you’ll have noticed that the weather can’t decide what season it is.

Yeah, that’s right, like every single person you’ve had an awkward conversation with in an elevator, we’re talking about the weather.

‘Oh no, Ben’s on another one of his rants’ you might say.

Well to that I say, ‘strap yourselves in ladies and gentlemen’.

This last week is a great example. I woke up as cold as I’ve ever been inside my own home, feeling like an icy pole left in the bottom of the freezer, so I rugged up accordingly.

Come about lunch time, I was left looking like an absolute cruskit as I rocked up to a job at Glen Willow in a jumper and beanie only to be met with the unexpected force of what felt like 1000 suns beaming down on my now slow-cooked body.

After hard-blasting the AC in the car back to the office, I removed the demon layers that left me sweating like a pig down to what felt more appropriate for the weather.

Of course if you’ve read this far, you know this isn’t where this ends.

I finish work just as the sun is starting to set each winter day, so after being punished by the sun earlier I thought I knew better and to rug back up – but I am an idiot.

As soon as I stepped out the front door, I was treated to what felt like a windchill of -9° as my entire being was warped into a new reality where the Sun had ceased to exist.

Maybe that’s what I get for making a point to walk to work as much as I can and claiming the Colonial Inn Museum on Pokemon GO. My fingers nearly fell off.

Not even asking my phone what the weather will be like yields useful results. My typical morning routine is to ask Siri to tell me what meetings I have and what the weather will be like – oh and sometimes to play the Big Mountain version of ‘Baby I love Your Way’, but that’s for another time.

But when you look at the forecast and it presents you with a selection of hot, cold, very cold, windy, rain and then more cold wind, I might as well pack a suitcase and haul it with me to work with the sheer amount of changing needed to be done.

The baby boomers can rest easy this week, as long as the weather keeps being this confused about itself my alleged crusade against that particular generation will be put on hold until then – or at least until people stop complaining about plastic bags.