People often ask me if wet, dreary days like these make me feel at home. “Just like England, eh?” It’s true, the rain, like cheddar and tea, makes people think of England. Funnily enough, I don’t remember it raining much at all when I was a kid. I’m sure it did all the time, but children don’t notice or care about the weather the way adults do. Kids aren’t making contingency plans or worrying about catching a chill if they get caught in a downpour. They don’t care about consequence or being cold and wet as long as they’re having fun. “My childhood winters were so much colder than they are today,” said a studio mate this morning as we lamented the lack of natural light. “But I don’t think I payed attention to the cold. Children don’t.” It wasn’t until I moved to Norfolk in the late 90s that I realized how I much it rains in England. The combination of incessant drizzle and Brutalist architecture made for a rather gray time. Thank heavens for brilliant house mates. The line between childhood and adulthood is blurry. For me the shift was at around 19. I lived on my own. I was out in the world. I started noticing the weather.