Why I Finally Stopped Dressing for Mediterranean Summer in a Country Where 19°C Counts as a Heatwave

You know that moment when your weather app shows 19°C and suddenly half of London loses its collective mind? I swear, the first properly warm day here is like watching a nature documentary about mass migration, except instead of wildebeest it’s pale British people in clothes they haven’t worn since their last holiday to Spain, stumbling around parks looking vaguely surprised that the sun exists.

I was in Hyde Park last weekend when the BBC promised “sunny intervals” and 19 degrees – which honestly might as well be tropical by our standards – and I watched this whole surreal scene unfold. Guys who’d been sensibly bundled up in jumpers all week were suddenly shirtless in board shorts that clearly hadn’t seen daylight since some package deal to the Canary Islands. Women were tottering around in tiny sundresses, arms covered in goosebumps every time a cloud passed over, but still determined to prove they were Ready For Summer despite being visibly freezing.

This one bloke at the ice cream van was literally sweating while standing in shade, wearing flip-flops in April in London, telling anyone who’d listen that it was “bit warm, isn’t it?” Like mate, you’re the one who chose to dress for Ibiza when you’re actually in Zone 2.

The whole thing got me thinking about how absolutely terrible I used to be at dressing for what passes for summer in this country. I mean, I’ve spent years getting it completely wrong, swinging between overdressing for mild days and underdressing for the three days a year it’s actually properly warm. There’s this weird psychological thing that happens where you see “summer collection” in shops and your brain just… forgets you live somewhere that rain is basically a personality trait.

God, the mistakes I’ve made. Every spring I’d buy at least one completely impractical item designed for someone who spends their summer lounging around the Mediterranean instead of commuting through Peckham in varying degrees of dampness. Last year it was this linen jumpsuit that looked incredible on the hanger and then wrinkled so badly after seventeen minutes of wear that I looked like I’d been sleeping rough. The year before that – an off-shoulder dress that required this specific strapless bra situation, which meant I spent an entire garden party doing this weird nervous tic thing, constantly adjusting my undergarments while trying to have normal conversations about house prices and whether anyone had watched that new thing on Netflix.

Don’t even get me started on my brief white jeans phase. Between public transport, the British obsession with serving red wine at literally every social gathering, and my own spectacular ability to spill things on myself, they had a useful lifespan of about an hour. Expensive hour though.

The thing is, summer collections are designed for actual hot places where sunglasses are necessary rather than optimistic accessories, where you won’t end up with sad damp feet because of unexpected showers at 3pm. They’re made for climates that don’t require you to carry a jacket “just in case” every single day from May through September.

But here’s what I’ve figured out after years of getting it wrong – British summer needs its own specific approach. We can’t dress like we’re in Tuscany when we’re actually dealing with that uniquely British temperature range of 16-22°C that’s neither hot nor cold, just sort of… there. Aggressively medium weather that requires actual strategy.

The foundation of the whole thing is what I call adaptable layers, which sounds boring but honestly changed my entire relationship with summer dressing. It’s not about giving up on style and wearing hiking gear everywhere (though there’s definitely some overlap in practical requirements), but being smart about what those layers are and how they work together.

Like, the perfect British summer top isn’t some tiny camisole that’ll have you freezing the second you step into air conditioning, and it’s not a thick t-shirt that’ll have you sweating on the tube. It’s something in between – I’ve got this short-sleeved blouse in cotton that’s fitted enough to look intentional but loose enough for airflow on those rare properly hot days. The neckline works under a light jacket when clouds roll in, but doesn’t make me feel like a nun if the sun actually shows up.

Actually, can we talk about sweat patches for a second? Because nobody mentions this in fashion content, but it’s absolutely crucial for summer dressing in a city where you might need to walk quickly to catch transport in unexpected humidity. I have what I call my “temperature-regulating blouse” – slightly drapey, decent neckline, fabric that doesn’t show moisture. Sounds boring, I know, but it’s honestly the most-worn item in my summer wardrobe because it bridges that gap between looking seasonally appropriate and acknowledging that sometimes you need to run for a bus.

Bottoms are their own challenge entirely. I spent years trying to make tiny denim shorts work before accepting they just… don’t. Not for London summers anyway. You’re freezing in shops and restaurants, constantly pulling them down on public transport, can’t sit properly in pub gardens without strategic cardigan-around-waist positioning. Now I save them for actual beach holidays and wear what my friend Leila calls “polite shorts” instead – tailored, mid-thigh, substantial enough that you don’t feel exposed every time you need to bend over or sit down.

Though honestly, culottes have been my revelation. Wide-leg cropped trousers that give you air circulation for warmer moments but coverage for cooler ones, work with sandals or closed shoes depending on what the weather decides to do between morning and afternoon. Revolutionary concept, I know, but it took me years to figure out that practical doesn’t have to mean frumpy.

I witnessed this phenomenon in full force last weekend. The BBC weather app promised 19°C and “sunny intervals” – practically tropical by British standards – and Hyde Park looked like the aftermath of a clothing explosion.

Dresses should be foolproof for summer, right? Wrong. So wrong. The tiny-strapped sundress is basically a meteorological gamble in a country where sunshine can dissolve into chilly breeze within minutes. I learned this the hard way at approximately seventeen different outdoor events where I spent the entire time trying to casually warm my shoulders without looking like I was doing interpretive dance.

Now I stick to what I call “substantial summer dresses” – short sleeves, fabric with actual weight to it, silhouettes that work with layers. My most-worn summer dress is this short-sleeved midi in cotton twill that holds its shape in wind, won’t go transparent if it starts raining, works with bare legs and sandals or tights and boots depending on what our chaotic weather is doing. Not the most exciting thing I own, but it’s what actually gets worn because it addresses the reality of our climate.

The outer layer situation is probably the most crucial thing to get right. The fantasy is you won’t need one – that you’ll float through summer in nothing but sundresses and linen. The reality is you need some form of jacket for about 85% of our supposed summer days. The perfect British summer jacket needs to be light enough that you won’t overheat if sun appears, substantial enough to provide actual warmth, and crucially, must fold small enough to fit in your bag.

I’ve got this lightweight cotton-linen blazer in navy that’s unlined for breathability but still gives proper warmth when needed. Navy because it shows fewer rain spots than lighter colors – learned that one through experience. It looks intentional rather than purely practical, which helps maintain the illusion that I’m dressing for style instead of just trying to survive our meteorological chaos.

Shoes though. God. The eternal summer footwear dilemma. The optimism of sandals meeting the reality of never being more than a few hours away from puddles. I’ve lost count of times I’ve left home in open-toed shoes based on morning sunshine, only to be squelching back with sodden feet after afternoon downpours. Now I choose sandals with actual straps that stay on during sudden dashes for shelter, or canvas trainers that breathe better than winter ones but still protect from unexpected water.

I literally plan outings with footwear contingencies now. If I’m determined to wear proper sandals, I check hourly forecasts obsessively and pack backup ballet flats in my bag. Not glamorous, but neither is limping home with rain-soaked feet wondering why you thought flip-flops were appropriate for British weather.

The accessories game is all about double duty – style elements that also function as weather management. Lightweight scarves for when pub garden temperatures drop the second sun disappears. Sunglasses for those five minutes of blinding light that burst through cloud cover. Bags big enough for the layers you’ll inevitably shed and re-add throughout the day, but not so enormous you look like you’re prepared for arctic expedition.

The key is acknowledging our specific climate challenges while still participating in the general concept of summer. It’s about embracing our uniquely confused relationship with warm weather – celebrating those modest temperature increases that wouldn’t impress anyone from actually hot countries but have us declaring it “absolutely boiling” the moment it hits 20°C.

Last weekend at that pub lunch, watching the usual summer extremes around me – men in shorts despite clearly freezing, women in tiny dresses huddled under heaters – I was wearing cropped wide-leg trousers, short-sleeved shirt that could button up or down depending on conditions, and leather sandals that wouldn’t disintegrate in light rain. Folded in my bag were a cotton cardigan and small umbrella, because I’m not new here.

When the inevitable afternoon cloud cover dropped the temperature by what felt like ten degrees, I was prepared without being obviously overdressed for the earlier sunshine. My friend Tomas, wearing winter denim jacket over t-shirt with shorts and boots – basically dressed for three different climates simultaneously – asked how I always looked appropriate for the weather.

The truth is simply this: I’ve accepted our weather for what it is, rather than what I wish it was.

I’ve stopped dressing for Instagram summer and started dressing for actual British summer – the one where 19°C genuinely is “quite warm actually,” where single days require both sunscreen and waterproof layers, where sophistication isn’t minimalism but strategic preparedness disguised as style.

That doesn’t mean abandoning summer joy or the seasonal lightening that comes with warmer months. It just means approaching it with proper British pragmatism – adapting to our peculiar climate while maintaining sense of humor about the whole thing.

So here’s to British summer fashion that works with our reality instead of against it. That celebrates temperatures which wouldn’t impress anyone from genuinely hot places but have us panic-buying ice lollies and declaring national heatwave emergencies. That prepares for inevitable weather changes while still hoping for the best. That lets us participate in summer without pretending we live somewhere with reliable sunshine.

And if we get that mythical proper heatwave that makes newspaper headlines and sparks national debates about whether fans should be essential items? Then I’ll dig out that completely impractical linen jumpsuit and pretend I knew it would be useful all along, just like everyone else stumbling around in clothes designed for climates we can only dream about.