It’s April on the continent – identifiable by a sickly sun, with rays coming in at the wrong angle (not 90 degrees) and the wrong colour: chamomile tea not egg yolk. April is rain, white skies – and the odd day of hot misleading weather where you get your hopes up, only to have them dashed again. It’s the month you wished you lived somewhere with a proper climate. Winters here are not much fun either, but but they don’t mislead you to expect anything else but dark miserable skies. In April, however crocuses and bluebells come out heralding the end of winter and tempting you with visions of summer and a time of bright flowers and birdsong. Suddenly warm evenings drinking chilled, sparkling wine, tinted pink by hibiscus flowers seem a distinct possibility. And just as you succumb to temptation and dare to believe, the temperatures drop from 28° to 10° in a day, and you spend the evening rescuing plants from a suddenly hostile environment. April is the month when a place where the weather can make up its mind has a special appeal. Where once it gets hot, it stays hot and where you know that if you leave the house in a T-shirt in the morning, you will not suddenly be ambushed by a 15 degree drop in temperature and look like an idiot as you shiver your way home past smirking people who remembered to bring a jumper. Somewhere like DC. DC has great weather: proper winters: crisply, crunchily, icily bone-chillingly cold oh and sky is blue. And long hot humid sexy summers – in DC when it gets hot it stays hot – all day, all night and all summer.