Wetterman

In a world of symbols and systems of signs, where misunderstandings are rife and relationships rise and fall on the turn of a phrase or the weight of a word. In the absence of big theories and master narratives, what better topic can there be for people to talk about than the weather?

The weather is the great universal, an ideology that all can embrace. The weather transcends every division. Irrespective of age, class or religion, everybody feels the weather. It is, after all, the lowest common denominator. It is the direct experience that unites all.

In the summer of his seventh year, divine forces afforded Henry Wetterman the eyes, ears and sense of touch to properly appreciate the weather. This God-given talent is not dissimilar to that given to all the great artists who appreciate the all encompassing beauty of those and that which surround them.

For Henry the skies are his shifting palette of inspiration. Each day affords him new hues and shades to his colours.

Many engage in a day to day, tired rhetoric of weather. For some, talking about the weather comprises an age old catalogue of stock phrases and wearisome idioms. Anybody and everybody can talk about the weather. But nobody can talk about the weather like Henry Wetterman. The weather is, in fact, the only thing he ever talks about.

The full extent of Henry’s talent lies in his ability to impart a true sense of the weather through his words.

In unfavourable company he advances tales and stories of cold and rainy nights. The air becomes damp and those that surround him quickly retreat, leaving him again to his own devices.

At a party he will regale stories of blue skies and the feeling of the sun on skin. His words and stories of cheery weather inevitably permeate the room. The temperature rises, jackets and jumpers are removed and the party adopts a warm-blooded latin feel.

When he talks to her, he conjures up descriptions of tropical weather systems. The air becomes warm and dense, carrying with it an electricity that is palpable to them both. He describes the clouds as they form. She listens intently, but also patiently, waiting for him to get to the punchline - the storm.

When Henry Wetterman talks about storms the static charge in the room is set free. The air in the room hovers between terror and elation. Warm raindrops greet the skin.

Modesty restraining him, he watches the tropical storm unleash the last of its energy and holds her, sheltering her whilst they wait for blue skies to return. He smiles to himself. He may only be able to talk about the weather, but he knows that it is one hell of a party trick.

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