Being French

I can't get over what people wear around here. Or, should I say, how little they wear.
It was bright and sunny this morning, as it seems to be most mornings, and, whilst on a brief expedition into the garden to feed the dogs, I noticed the nice lady across the way sweeping her drive.
Neither Jan nor I, sluts that we are, have ever swept the drive. And even less have we ever swept the drive in a skimpy top. A top more suitable, in my humble opinion, for the beach.
It wasn't freezing but it sure as hell wasn't warm. It was on the blue side of cool which to my delicate nature verges on bloody cold. I had in fact recently just retrieved my Doc Martins and was thinking about getting some dubbin on them to protect my feet from the upcoming elements. This is definitely not flip flop weather.
It seems that the mores around here is to shed all your clothes at the merest sign of the sun and then, presumably because it was a good memory, keep the summer clothes on until someone points out that the white stuff lapping around your ankles is snow.
It would appear that we've become more French in our habits. We could never get over seeing the French walking around in hats and coats in 20c+ weather whilst us grockles were wearing flip flops and shorts. I think we've been brainwashed and become ever so slightly French.
Anyway, we popped over to Fountains Abbey at lunch time to meet friends who were visiting the area and, sure enough, there were more strange folk walking about in shorts and t-shirts whilst the sensible amongst us were wearing woolly hats and padded gilets.
The rest of the day was excellent with lunch at the Bruce Arms and then a visit to the Black Sheep Brewery in Masham marred only by getting soaked with an unexpected squall. Top day.