IT'S no wonder we're all walking around with faces like thunder. Just look at the weather.

I don't care what the meteorologists say. This has to be the coolest, wettest, most miserable July in Britain since the Ice Age.

Even my husband, who often described damp, breezy days as "quite pleasant", is in agreement with the rest of us that we've had more than our fair share of cold fronts this summer.

What makes it all the more depressing is that, unlike the winter months, there's little else to take your mind off the lack of sunshine.

There's nothing on the telly (this is when you need ER most) and it's too chilly to sit outside during the light evenings unless you want to huddle around the barbecue.

With an air of resignation, people have been turning on their heating, digging out their woollies and sitting down to watch yet more repeats of Dad's Army.

The biggest shame is that it's ruining all those extravagant outdoor events people have been planning for months.

We went to a baby's first birthday party last weekend and the grand scheme of having a picnic in Preston Park had to be changed at the 11th hour when the heavens opened.

The hosts had anticipated the worst and made emergency provision for the dozen of guests in their tiny terraced house, but they were so disappointed by the vagaries of the British climate that they have now vowed to emigrate to New Zealand where the winters, it seems, are only slightly cooler than our summers.

When it comes to the weather, we are a patient race. We can put up with frosts in May and a bit of drizzle in June because we convince ourselves that July will be HOT, HOT, HOT.

Never mind what the forecasters predict. We have an unswerving belief that the seventh month of the year will see us dipping our feet in kids' paddling pools, getting tangled in deckchairs and gloating when the newspapers claim that temperatures here are higher than in Bombay.

And when it doesn't happen . . .

Perhaps the way to look at the situation is to remember that hot summers do have their drawbacks too.

For a start, there are all those rotten wasps who come out in force when the sun is up and an alfresco Sussex cream tea is on the day's agenda.

At least I haven't yet had to perform an impromptu dance with a hornet in a public place.

And, while the hotels and seafront traders won't agree with me, it's been rather nice taking a stroll on Brighton's promenade without the usual hordes of day-trippers and tourists shoving past you with hideous, giant furry things they've won on the pier.

It's also a relief that our usual flood of house guests at this time of year is down to just a manageable trickle, which means my husband has no excuse not to get on with his multitude of half-finished DIY jobs.

Most of all, it's an incontrovertible fact that if a heatwave lasts longer than two days here, we start complaining about it and longing for a drop of rain.