Inappropriately dressed

Those who know me know I have a faulty thermostat. I’m hardly ever too warm, and can become what Yorkshire people describe as ‘frozen daft’ in a matter of minutes, then taking hours to defrost and warm up. Getting my arms and legs out only happens during high summer here in the south of France. Back in the UK, it’s a rare occurrence indeed.

My hubby despairs. He’s always warm, and sits around the house in shorts and T-shirt while I shiver in joggers and a sweatshirt. He can’t believe I can be cold when the thermometer shows 20 degrees inside. But then he feels my hands, and is in awe of my abnormal body temperature. There’s nothing wrong with me; I’ve had my blood circulation checked at the doctor’s in case it’s failing to reach my extremities and my organs are hogging it all for some reason, but no, I’m perfectly healthy, I’m just cold. I think I should have been born a lizard, lying in the sun all day to soak up the warmth and retaining it for later like some kind of reptilian storage heater.

Here in Provence, the weather is often balmy and sometimes baking. That’s why I like it. In summer, I love being able to fling on a vest top and a skirt, safe in the knowledge that there’s no need to check the weather forecast or dither about taking a cardigan with me. For me, the biggest pull of this beautiful part of the world is its climate.

Despite its warm climate, we have noticed that the French don’t always seem to dress appropriately. A couple of weeks ago, there was a mini heatwave during the week when my parents, sister and nephew came to visit. Temperatures rose to a lovely 26 degrees, and they hastily stripped off jumpers and jeans to be replaced with T-shirts and cropped trousers. But our French friends were muffled up in coats and scarves, despite the heat. We’ve noticed this before; young girls wear woolly high-necked jumpers while we are in T-shirts; men are in thick jackets with jaunty scarves in contrast to our cotton shirts and blouses.

We can understand it in a way, as they know there is the guarantee of even better weather to come, so maybe they don’t want to waste their summer outfits on a bit of unseasonal warm sunshine. In the UK, there’s always a chance your summer stuff will never make it out of the wardrobe if you don’t take advantage of a sunny day.

Yesterday, however, Dame Nature threw us a curve ball and the temperature plummeted to a chilly 12 degrees. I was instantly frozen, donning my feather and down jacket for our Easter Sunday trip out to an event in nearby Velleron. To add insult to injury, it started to rain. I was not only frozen but damp, the ultimate nightmare for someone with a faulty thermostat. By the time we returned to the car, I was ‘Brrrrrrr-ing’ as if I was in the Arctic, dramatically turning the car heater up to maximum with a flourish, and watching my hair go from damp and flat to wild and curly.

But what we didn’t expect to see was so many French people inappropriately dressed in the opposite direction. In the chilly rain, we saw a man in a T-shirt with a jumper tied round his shoulders, bare arms exposed to the elements. Next, a young woman in a short skirt with bare legs and flat ballet pumps, splashing through the puddles. Finally, an older lady in cropped trousers and white sandals. What on earth was going on? Had they all gone mad? Who knows, I couldn’t think even about it; I think it was because my brain had shut down due to reaching its critical level of chilliness. Vive l’été!